


Tempest in a Teacup

by akaVertigo



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-12
Updated: 2014-08-12
Packaged: 2018-02-12 21:08:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 32,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2124762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akaVertigo/pseuds/akaVertigo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fate puts Katara in the Fire Nation to grow up in the company of a Dragon, a prince, and a lot of good tea. AU Zutara...of a sort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: stars against the sun

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on FF.Net in 2006.

"She's awake."

Iroh looks up from the map with its intertwined roads of water and land, and places that are not home, and stares at the ship doctor a moment before nodding. "Ah? Good. How is she feeling?"

The medic, Shuang, shrugs with deferential casualness. He is a good man, a capable healer, and has been under Iroh's command for nearly twenty years. Iroh trusts his knowledge and opinion. In return, the doctor trusts Iroh's intuition and decisions. Even so, there's a tinge of unease on Shuang's thin face. "She didn't say. In fact, the child hasn't uttered a sound since opening her eyes. She's not screaming, not crying, not asking questions, nothing." He frowns. "Normally I'd attribute the silence to shock considering the atypical circumstances of her situation but…" Shuang stops, having noticed the expression on Iroh's face. Folding his hands back into his sleeves, the doctor looks away. "Either way, she is awake. I thought you would like to know."

"Thank you. I appreciate it." Iroh nods again, politely grateful, and reluctantly rolls the map closed. Reluctantly not because he grieves leaving, but because he knows his respite is a short one. But that is a matter for later. Now he has a different duty to answer.

"Take me to see her," he says.

The walk to his quarters is short and familiar, but Iroh feels a difference in the passage. The sight of the doorstep makes him unaccountably anxious. He opens the door, feeling unsure of what he'll find.

It is the eyes that he notices first. How could anyone, especially a Fire Nation anyone, ignore them? They are a curious combination of pale and dark, luminescent in a way that has nothing to do with the room's firelight. They are blue. Blue. Blue like deep water or late hour skies, blue like a sweep of diluted ink on paper or a wave under the noon sun. Blue like only the eyes of a Water Tribe native can be. Because of course that is what she is, this girl hunched on Iroh's bed. Even in the dark, the bandage around her head is a gleaming contrast to her dark skin, a mass of lightless hair pouring out from it in a heavy tangle. The rest of her is lost among the thick blankets and the too-big robe wrapped around her. The robe is Iroh's; the excess fabric engulfs the girl like a collapsed tent. There is less of her than he remembers. Somehow, sitting up she looks smaller, less substantial, then she did lying down. Perhaps it is simply that he is unfamiliar to her being upright, welcome change though it is. For the past three days the child has lain feverish and unmoving, her breathing a ragged noise in the dark. Iroh thinks she may be six, maybe eight, most likely younger than ten. In reality he knows only one definite thing about the Water child silently watching him come into the room. That she is awake, means Iroh has succeeded in saving her life.

Just as three days ago, he destroyed it.

Shuang follows him in and immediately goes to the girl's side, his attention dedicated to the swath of bandages around her head, the scabs on her palms. She flinches a little at the physical contact but makes no move to ward him off. The complacency has Iroh wondering if she understands the situation. The wounds on her skin, the iron walls around her, what, if any of it, is registering within the current of her Water mind?

What is war to a child?

Iroh cannot remember a time when the word "war" was alien to him. He was raised under its definition, first as a boy and prince, then as a man and soldier, now as a general and Dragon of the West. Such is the fate of every child born with Fire Nation blood during the past century of conflict. Iroh does not think that this child, born of Water as he of Fire, has suffered a fate much different.

Shuang finishes his ministrations, proclaiming the injuries to be healing excellently. He mentions needing to change the bandages in the morning, recommends a gentle diet, and then stands waiting, watching Iroh. Released from the doctor's concentration, the girl draws both knees to her chest and stares at her toes.

"Where shall she be moved?" Shuang asks. "I don't advise putting her anywhere near the soldier's barrack but some spot in a quieter area, the infirmary maybe, would do."

"No need," Iroh replies. "She can stay where she is. Here."

"Here?" Incredulous, but too much a veteran to show it, the doctor surveys the room. Iroh's doesn't because he knows well enough what there is to see. His quarters are large enough to show respect to his station but they could be larger. Likewise the furnishings could be grander, more ornate and flattering. The absence of opulence is intentional; it is something Iroh does not invite and thusly doesn't receive. Which is not to say there aren't some concessions to luxury; the twin silk calligraphy scrolls on the walls, the sandalwood writing table with jade inlays, the red lacquer medicine chest with golden handles, Iroh's room does not belong to a poor man. And then there are the small, precious things whose value is sentimental or merely curious, and thus apparent only to Iroh's eyes. The painted wooden rhino "on loan" from his nephew, for example. A child with blue eyes is not so odd an addition, one could say.

"Here," he repeats. "Nobody will bother her; surely, the peace won't do her any harm?"

Slowly, Shuang nods, his gaze settling on the girl who is effortlessly ignoring them both. "Rest is a fine medicine, yes. I don't know how well she will sleep because of the different surroundings, but yours is a friendly face to wake up to, I suppose." Pity enters the doctor's eyes. "She will have to adjust fast."

"Children are better at surviving changes than the rest of us." _But they should not have to,_ he thinks.

"She'll heal." The conviction in Shuang's voice has a surprising amount of steel. "Girl has a good balance of elements in her—even if she is mainly Water. And I doubt she's actually mute, either."

Iroh agrees. When the doctor leaves, Iroh sits down to think. The room's silence thickens into clay, somnolence; Iroh remembers that he is very tired and very far from home. He looks at the girl. Surprisingly, she is looking at _him_.

"Well. Here we are, little fish. I suppose this is many times stranger for you than this is for me," he muses. "My name, by the way, is Iroh. Would you like to tell me yours?"

No response.

"Ah. Well. Later on, perhaps, when you are in better health and mood. In case you are curious, we are on my ship, more or less, and this is my room. You have been asleep for the past three days." A shadowy flicker of—what?—surprise, fear, loss, passes over the little brown face to be suppressed under tightened lips. "If it is all right with you, I was planning to have you remain here for the rest of the journey." He tries to smile. "It is not much, I know, especially for a young girl but hopefully the surroundings will do for now. Once your wounds heal, we will see if there's some other accommodations can be made. But you won't have to move if you do not want to; provided you can bear my snoring."

Still, she says nothing. Truly, he didn't expect her to.

"Nobody will hurt you. I swear by my honor, child, I didn't bring you here with harm in mind. Whether you believe it or not, you are safe here."

The words are honest but hollow because he has nothing to convince her with and she has no reason to believe. Instead a hundred years of experience sits between the child and the soldier, watching both with bleak eyes.

* * *

 

"She won't eat."

Iroh receives the disturbing news midday, pre-lunch, delivered by a pickled-faced Shuang.

"Her breakfast was brought to her," Iroh begins only to be cut off with surgical precision.

"Yes, I know. I saw it sitting untouched on the table. My guess is lunch will not be receiving a fonder treatment."

"Maybe she's not hungry?" Iroh is an optimistic man. Shuang frowns at him.

"After three days of being a corpse with a pulse? She should be starving, as I know she is, but the little fool is determined to be obstinate. The question is whether her stubbornness will outlast her stomach." The doctor's lips thin dourly. "If you wish to have that child alive to see land on the horizon, I suggest you find a way to put rice on her tongue."

Iroh tries. He orders dinner brought to his room, encouraging the cook to be creative and receiving enough fare to satisfy the fattest appetite, and he watches the girl ignore it. Stubborn, indeed. Seeking inspiration, Iroh turns to the food: roast duck, spiced noodles, bowls of thick soup, and tea. An addition of rice gruel sits like an unkind reminder beside the kettle. Shuang's orders, no doubt, something malleable to avoid exhausting a weakened constitution. Iroh has little experience with doctoring, although he has plenty being a patient; he is not a man who knows much about medicine. But Iroh is a general who knows plenty about the importance of good ammunition. Iroh is also an uncle twice over and knows something of children.

"When I was a boy," he says, picking up a small dish of dumplings. "My favorite part about celebrating the Solstice was this, sweet dumplings. They made them especially for festival time. I never had enough patience to wait for the banquet's start, though, and would find a way to sneak into the kitchens. The cooks let me get away with thieving because it was too embarrassing to chase me out, or worse, catch me. Sometimes my brother would join me. But eventually he grew older and realized it was below his station to do such things. Pity: he was better than I at not being caught. My nephew, well, these are _his_ favorite too but unfortunately he is even worse at sneaking than his crazy old uncle. Plus, he is too honest." Indeed, Iroh thinks sometimes that Zuko is too good a boy in general and feels oddly disquieted by the thought. "He should be nine by now, probably not that much older than you. No? I haven't seen him in over two years. But I'm willing to bet these are still his favorite treat." Iroh smiles at his audience of one and offers the dish. "Would you like to try one? They have walnut and melon seeds."

She turns away. Iroh sighs and sets down the plate.

"Perhaps you do not like sweet things. My apologies. How about noodles? I like them with soy jam or shredded pork but maybe you'd like some with sesame paste? We are low on fresh vegetables but the ship stores will get refilled soon; I'll have the cook prepare stuffed peppers or stir-fry some bitter melon. A small body should receive plenty of good, green things to help it grow." His coaxing elicits no response; the girl sits on the bed, blankets huddled around her, mouth a firm pale line. She looks small and fragile as only a young, hurt child could.

Sighing, Iroh pushes aside the food. "Then we shall not eat tonight. Would you at least consent to sharing a cup of tea?" Thirst, he knows, is more debilitating than hunger. Though there is no identifiable gesture of acknowledgment from the child, Iroh sets out two cups. "They say a perfect cup of tea requires clear rainwater from a cool night, wise hands, and serene spirits. All good things to have if you have them, I'm sure. But I have a peasant's soul; to me a good cup brings serenity rather than requires it. Of course, it helps to have a clean kettle and warm company. Also, ginseng." Carefully, he pours the golden liquid into the painted cup. "It's my favorite, you know."

Iroh fills the second cup with equal care before looking at the girl again. Her lips are dry, he notices, a spot of blood oozing through the cracks. When Iroh stands up and approaches the bed, she does not shy away but tenses nonetheless. He offers her the cup.

In life there are moments holding more substance than others. To predict them is hard, to measure them upon occurrence is impossible. They are gifts, or curses, or disasters, whose worth only time will tell. Within their invisible walls are worlds disconnected from the ordinary patterns of a person's life, intimate domains where every move is significant and holy. To taste such a moment is to understand the power of transformation.

They are moments of change.

For as long as he lives, Iroh knows he will remember this; the quiet room, the gentle heat of the cup again his skin, the fragrant scent of spice, the small brown hand fisted in the blankets, the sway of the ship, the suspicion clouding her blue eyes, all of these enter him like light does the eye or music a lonely soul. He feels their presence become a weight inside him.

She takes the cup from his hands, silent, and the air between them changes. The moment passes leaving behind it an unknown world and the scent of ginseng.

* * *

 

"She's not afraid of you."

Shuang's observation comes during dinner, a time he often spends in Iroh's quarters by old invitation. Iroh looks up from his bowl of minced beef and chili, surprised. "Why would I want her to be?"

"Merely making an observation." The doctor takes a small sip of tea, his thin face thoughtful. "It is not a bad development. Certainly better than the competitive starving match you two were indulged in."

"Indulge is not the word I would choose for the experience," Iroh retorts, sardonically but without true ire. Forgoing any substantial eating for nearly three days had not been enjoyable. "It was kind of her to relent and begin eating."

"Would you have honestly continued to fast if she had _not_?"

Iroh shrugs. "There are worse trials."

"And this one was potentially less harmful for some than others," Shuang observes dryly. "It is a kind heart indeed that takes pity on your gut, General. Still…" His eyes stray to the third occupant of the room who is typically ignoring them both. But she is doing so with a bowl of steadily diminishing amount of soup in front of her and both men are relieved at the change. "She is a stubborn one. Almost two weeks and not a word; I am tempted to think she may be mute, after all."

"I think," Iroh says, "that when she has something to say she will say it. The little fish will not be rushed."

"Little fish?" Shuang repeats. "Huh. Yes, I suppose she is. A little fish onboard a big ship, out of water and in company of Fire." Pity gathers in the corner of the doctor's mouth. "A hard trial for one so small."

But there are worse. The fact of their existence is a cold comfort to Iroh's guilt but the chill lessens with every mouthful he sees her swallow.

* * *

 

"She must remind you of your niece."

It is a fairly logical assumption and Iroh doesn't fault Shuang for making it. But it is not true.

In truth, she reminds him of his nephew.

Outwardly, there is no resemblance between the two; one is loud, demanding, the other is mute, withdrawn. One runs around without hesitation, confident in the consistency of the world before and beneath him, and the other holds still, closed off and numb in the shell of her skin. Nothing he sees in the girl mirrors what he has seen in the boy; what about a river, after all, can be called similar to a bonfire?

Yet…

The center of the blaze, the core of a well: both house the essence of purity. Each is a small bright place that begins its existence untouched by the hunger and violence of the world. Iroh thinks of the child being raised to wage war and looks at the child wounded by it, and he prays that each shall receive the will to survive.

They are similar because they make Iroh remember the power of hope.

* * *

 

"She recognized Zhao."

Iroh frowns at Shuang. "Unlikely. No, she was simply scared and panicked. Being in a room with so many strangers must have overwhelmed her. Given the circumstances we should not blame her for what happened."

"I think you are underestimating the amount of guts under our little fish's dark skin. Scared or not, the girl knew what she was doing when she picked up that wine flagon. Damn good aim too; her strength is recovering faster than I expected." One of Shuang's brows rises marginally in a gesture carrying more amusement than, in Iroh's opinion, the situation warrants. He has spent the past three weeks worrying about sheltering his blue-eyed charge from the crew. Apparently, he should've been preparing to protect his crew instead.

"What set her off, do you think?" Iroh wonders out loud.

"I do not think it takes much when dealing with a man like Zhao."

"He's a strong soldier, Shuang." The words are true, calm, but something in Iroh's conscience turns cold eyes upon them. "The sort who will go far in the military."

"Happily crawling over the charred bodies of others to do it." The doctor's face hardens in disapproval. "That man has no hesitation with sending his troops into battle; every other patient I receive is under his command."

"We are at war."

"Does that mean every man below the rank of sergeant is cattle? I'm not denying the man's efficiency in battle, only his methods. A man should not fear the scent of smoke but neither should he hunger for it."

Tiredness, tasteless and gray, saws at Iroh's bones. Shuang is not wrong but his words have no place in the times they live in. "Zhao's methods are not very different from that of any other leader in this fleet. Including me."

There's a clatter from the room's far corner. Iroh turns to watch the girl kneel to pick up something that has apparently fallen to the floor; he recognizes the tiles from his Pai Sho set. Learning the game is a new ritual between them, adding to the habit of having a cup of tea during the meals they share. It helps pass the time from when she wakes up in the night, ripping away from a nightmare, to when she is calm enough to sleep again. Iroh, a solid sleeper by nature and a light one by trade, has become attuned for signs of a sudden gasp across the room. Despite the series of late hour lessons, which occur with damnable frequency, her stoically listening and watching him move painted tiles across the board, she has yet to make her move.

Until now apparently, Iroh thinks. Ah, _irony_.

"She has the right to be angry," he admits quietly but without the intent to hide his words, gaze still on the girl. Surprisingly, she looks away first, turning back to arranging the game pieces according to rules of her own design.

"She also must have a reason to focus that anger towards Zhao in particular, since there were plenty of other Firebenders available within range," Shuang says. "And it _was_ a Firebender she was aiming for, make no mistake about it; there were other flasks on the table but the girl picked one full of wine. Flammable. I doubt the selection was accidental."

Quiet in her corner, the child listens and says nothing, staring at the lotus tile in her hands.

* * *

 

"She's missing."

Shuang's face is anxious, its characteristic stoicism cracked with worry, and his dry voice is more strained than Iroh has heard it be in a very, very long time. A detached part of Iroh's mind remembers that the doctor, surprisingly, has no children of his own. The rest, however, is busy beginning to panic at the news.

"Missing from where?" Iroh asks while ice water starts to churn in his stomach. "Since when?"

"I don't know, not long. She was mixing honey and bran, helping make burn ointment; I stepped away for a moment to get more water for the blend. When I returned she was gone. I checked but there was no sign of the child anywhere around the area."

"You left her **_alone_**?"

"Only for a moment." Guilt hides under impatience in the doctor's voice. "Considering the wellness of her constitution lately, there seemed no reason to expect problems. The child has been eating and accepting treatment without a wisp of trouble, and she's stopped quaking at every shadow; I thought she had…recovered. There was little reason to believe otherwise."

Except that she is a child who spends her day surrounded by the unfamiliar and her night struggling against nightmares. "She never goes anywhere alone."

"Exactly," Shuang agrees, tense. "Where would she go?"

The answer, of course, is anywhere. It is a big ship and she is a very small girl. Fear, bare and shapeless, rises in Iroh's intuition.

He checks his, and hers, room first. At first glance nothing looks changed from how he left it in the morning after their shared breakfast of smoked salmon and spicy red sprouts (along with a small bowl of rice congee for the child, per Shuang's orders.) Then he notices the wet teacup on the table and the lingering scent of oolong. She has never, to Iroh's knowledge, drunk tea alone.

Halfway out the door, Shuang runs into him. He actually _runs,_ although Iroh has never seen the man adopt any pace less calm than a brisk walk. The worry on his face is now entirely evident. Wordlessly, Iroh follows him upwards to the open deck of the ship.

_Let it not be too late,_ he prays.

She is a small, bold mark against the horizon. A hard wind tumbles long thick hair away from the small brown face, holding the dark wings back to reveal an expression of lucid blankness. The clothes she's worn around the ship, warm pretty woolens purchased at various ports (because Iroh can't resist a bargain or an excuse to use it) have been replaced by garments of poorer condition. Recognizing the faded bloodstain on the blue sleeve, Iroh curses himself for not burning the clothes the moment she had others.

Slowly, he walks towards her until stopping a few feet away, realizing he is as close as the unspoken tension in her will allow him to come. Sitting on the ship's rim, her feet over the edge, she watches his approach and makes a small twitch, hands tensing in preparation to let go of the border they clutch. If she jumps now, he has no chance of catching her in time. If she jumps now, weak-bodied and determined, she will drown. If she jumps now, she will seize her last chance to avoid entering the Fire Nation. She knows the last, having been told by Iroh himself.

If she jumps now, she will escape the future by ending it.

"No," Iroh says. "Please, no."

Blue eyes look at him, dry, their light somehow untouched by the darkness of the bruises yet to heal on her body. Her gaze is a question.

_Why?_

Iroh doesn't know. Why this child when he has seen countless others bleed, scream, die? Because it was the right thing to do—no, he will not accept the mercy of the thought; he is not that naïve. Because of guilt? Because of honor?

He doesn't know. Because ever since he looked around the decimated village and spotted a bundle of blue against the snow, ever since he kneeled and reached down thinking to deliver mercy, to _kill_ , and ever since he felt the pulse underneath his hand and knew he could, would not, let it stop, ever since he saw the luminous color of her Water eyes—he has felt the beginning of something unnamable. It has opened red wings inside him, turning towards the sun, and though Iroh cannot see its face he believes it wears the expression of hope.

If she jumps now, she will die and it will change nothing.

"No," the Dragon of the West repeats. "Not here and not like this, little fish. Do not extinguish your life this hopeless way, child; your soul will mourn the waste. And there must be…must be…"

….what?

"There must be something, anything, in the world ahead you want to see. Even in the land of your enemy there must be something left to look forward to, if only for the sake of curiosity."

There must be something. Something that survives war, that lifts its face towards the sun and does not fade, something beyond what _is_. Something to hope for. Something to start with.

"What's his name?" Her voice is surprisingly clear and only a little threadbare from weeks of disuse; it has a sweet lilt. Iroh can't help but lose his own voice in surprise, momentarily startled into the role of a temporary mute.

_Who?_ "Who?"

"Your nephew," she says. "What's his name?"

"Zuko." Iroh says. "His name is Zuko."

She nods and, carefully, swings her feet back over onto solidity. Giving one last look to the span of water ahead, she walks towards him.

"My name," she says, "is Katara."


	2. Arc I: patterns of ink and metal: +cycles+

**Summer:**

It is the season of heat, gold air and parched shadows, clogged streets and noise (though when is this city, jewel of the nation's crown, quiet? A silent fire is dead.) In this season lives danger, the risk of plague roaming overheated alleys and rooms, looking for a face to lick.

Not surprising then, that Katara's first encounter with a Fire summer keeps her in bed and Iroh in worry. Often, he sits within her darkened room, waiting for each bout of dizziness and shivering to pass. During these periods, Katara jerks between trembling wakefulness and fevered dreaming—though it is a crime to call this _dreaming_ ; a dream should never pour such terror into a child's face or voice. Awake, she struggles to stomach soft rice and ginger broth, consuming glass after glass of cold, sour juice. Iroh is used to relying on the body's power to exercise and strengthen, to heal through a faster pulse and warmer muscles: the physician forbids this. ("She isn't a Fire child, Iroh," Shuang forewarns, more waspish on land than he is at sea. "Let the waters settle before rushing them to flow.") But Iroh watches the girl's face wane and droop, stagnating amidst forced comforts, and mounts a campaign to fight the crash.

He tells her stories, new and old, true and fantastic, long and short. Their telling makes Iroh realize two things; his tales are many, and similar enough to be one. She listens with an interest that outshines her delicacy. He brings her tea and small, red oranges, skirting Shuang's orders in his mission to tempt her appetite; unlike before, Katara accepts the treats with all the willingness her health can muster. He fills her room with toys, games, picture books, jade carvings tiny enough to palm, silk figurines with fairy faces, lacquer combs with silver teeth, and scrolls of words she needs help reading. Once, he brings a cricket in a painted bamboo cage but the next morning the cage is empty and Katara is happier; Iroh takes the hint and commits it resolutely to memory. For now, her happiness is a tentative thing, evanescent like dew; Iroh invites nothing to impede its roots.

Weakened though she is, Katara's nature refuses to be _weak_ ; it's not long before her stubbornness finds opportunity to growl. Upon discovering her evening soup laced with a sleeping draught (to drown the nightmares), she retaliates by using the broth to water Iroh's azaleas. Luckily, a compromise is reached quickly: Katara will accept the drug but only when brought openly and upon her request. Already, Iroh knows her enough to accept the deal without further haggling. Out of water or not, his little fish remains her own animal.

The days melt by, their scent full of spice and sunlight; somehow, Iroh begins finding it easier to breath when entering the blue-eyed girl's dusky quarters. The sight of a brown hand resting limply on a silken bedspread quits inspiring the chocking fear of endings, a worry fueled by the memories of ocean air and silence.

One morning he enters the room expecting to find a tired face and closed eyes, testimony of another harsh night, and shadows. Instead, sunshine spills on the floors and walls, a sweet glaze. Katara sits on the threshold between the room and the veranda, the undyed fabric of her sleeping robes a bland contrast to the colors of the garden beyond. She answers Iroh's greeting with a smile he's never met before.

"The flowers smelled so good when I woke up, I wanted to see what they looked like while the ground was still damp," she says. "It's nice, isn't it?"

And for the moment, it is.

* * *

**Autumn:**

It is the season of rain, of clear damp mornings and melancholy themes, cooler nights. Nature's late colors staff the garden, the sap of every green soul rushing forward like blood suffusing a shy beauty's cheek in the first moments of romance: beautiful, but fleeting.

The cooler weather is a balm to Katara, who rustles through the ornamental grasses for hours before finally returning inside with damp socks and seed speckled hems. The changing plant life fascinates her; every flower and weed is a wonder to find and pet. She studies the stem of a lily like a scholar deciphering the lines of a classic or the mystery of poem. Iroh marvels at so much potent concentration being stored in such a small container. But more marvelous is the quickness of her mind, a current refusing to be dammed, regardless the size of the challenge. Her literacy grows daily; it is flint in her hands, eager for tinder to feed its spark.

Katara's aptitude for calligraphy is a surprise to her tutors; her immediate fondness of the art is a surprise to Iroh. ("One would swear it's magic more than talent, my lord; her brush doesn't spill a drop of ink!" While the instructor laughs, Iroh smiles and subtly changes the subject.) Yet this new aspect of her is not without its shadows; Katara's expression changes when she lowers brush to paper, delight tempered by an emotion Iroh hesitates to name. Introspection, perhaps, if not judgment: it is a strange, occasionally unsettling, breed of thought to note flitting across a child's face. Iroh, with his appreciation for the uncommon, is steadfastly drawn to the tilt of Katara's head when she finishes reading a passage, or the sudden pensive reveries that pause her brush halfway through a sutra.

She has made it her mission to learn. Of what teacher, he cannot be sure.

* * *

**Winter:**

It is the season of twilight, of bare branches and moss, of warm kettles softening the presence of longer nights. The capital lies too far south to suffer the stiff freezing of its urban brethren, but it still submits to the brisker sea winds and paler sun.

Katara is incredulous when Iroh grumbles about the arriving cold; she doesn't understand the complaining. It is amusing, he supposes, to a mind born in the Southern tundra and accustomed to being dwarfed by icebergs. But she passes him the teacup with genuine sympathy, her sense of irony (a skill growing daily more acute) momentarily overshadowed by her kind nature. Together they drink tea and eat small, dry cakes shaped like lotuses; the sweetness lingers in Iroh's mouth, pleasure bolstered by conversation. No longer satisfied with only ink, Katara's liquid intuition and curiosity has progressed to include blends and brews; her tongue and nose easily distinguish the subtleties of one aftertaste from another, or deciphering the marriage of ginseng and ginger. Likewise, her eyes and fingertips catalogue the flaws and perfections on the skin of an antique kettle or the glazed lip of a cup. In the mottled pattern of every varnish, she finds a story.

Lately, as the garden grows sparse, more and more scrolls tend to vanish from Iroh's library. Their eventual return is as smooth and imperceptible as their departure. Iroh answers the phenomenon by purchasing longer volumes and keeping a carved pine stool to help her reach the higher shelves.

Though she has teachers aplenty, Katara brings the majority of her questions to Iroh. Frequently, what she asks to be explained would be considered too plain or simple, too _obvious_ , to require scrutiny. (Or perhaps it is because they are conventions too deeply buried in the clay of his culture for even a man like Iroh to consider questioning; more and more often, Iroh ponders this.) The architecture of romance in a poem, the names of the herbs in their soup, the histories of cities she's never seen—Katara's curiosity is without prejudice.

But no matter how varied the topics, one thing remains constant: underneath their every exchange, runs a thin river of subjects they do not touch. Because she is still too young and he is already too tired.

* * *

**Spring:**

It is the season of change, of winds turning soft and happy, of birds returning to familiar gardens. Again, everything is new and ready to don fresh robes of life and vigor; every cup brims with potential.

Katara's latest hobby is the acquisition and emulation of court speech. She juggles euphemisms and symbols, courtesy and wit, procedure and frivolity, and treats a century of standards like tiles in a game; Iroh can't decide whether to be impressed by the girl's dexterity or worried over the scorn threading its glibness. Ultimately, he offers careful warnings but forbids nothing; already it's becoming clear that his little fish cannot stay a secret. Over the course of the year, people have noticed the Dragon's odd companion and curiosity has bloomed; though there are few that know her face, there are many who know her name.

Does Katara know this?

_Yes._

Does it worry her?

_Time will tell._

Draped in pale robes of blue, soft fabric subtly marked in a wave-and-shell pattern, a coral comb in her hair, Katara sits on the veranda and rolls a slim brush between her fingers. Wherever her thoughts, they've clearly abandoned the milkweed colored paper askew on the writing desk. The paper is not unmarked; Iroh edges closer to glimpse a line of poetry skittering across the sheet.

_And I remember the moon like smoke on the river…_ The characters slant beautifully, their richness exemplary despite their maker's apparent lack of interest. Katara's calligraphy has progressed at a remarkable pace; what were once the pretty efforts of a child have matured into works of grace. Iroh proudly keeps one ofher renditions, an autumn passage about lanterns and fog, displayed in his quarters. Her skill, he knows, is not common in a child this young. More specifically, her skill is not common, _**period**_. Iroh only has to remember the grumbling efforts of his nephew, and the pained expressions of his nephew's harried tutors, to understand how much of a daily struggle the lessons are becoming. Poor Zuko. The boy tries hard but who could blame him for losing patience with a task he has no interest in, especially when forced to suffer the company of bland scholars who offer nothing to tempt the imagination—Iroh stops, startled by the plan suddenly blooming in his mind. It is a simple plan, little more than an idea, really, but…

He thinks of his nephew, the young prince locked in a castle, learning nothing new. Slowly, he turns to look again at his ward, foreign and gifted, sitting alone with her thoughts. Iroh thinks about changes.

"Katara? Gather your pens and inks, little fish; we are going on a little trip today. It might seem a bit strange to you at first but—well, I think it is time for you to meet someone. Someone special." Iroh smiles.

"His name is Zuko…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Katara's poem comes from T'ang Shih San Pai Shou or Three Hundred T'ang Poems, an anthology of Chinese poetry compiled in the 18th century. The complete poem, written by Du Mu, is as follows:
> 
> **A NIGHT AT A TAVERN**  
>  Solitary at the tavern,  
> I am shut in with loneliness and grief.  
> Under the cold lamp, I brood on the past;  
> I am kept awake by a lost wild goose.  
> ...Roused at dawn from a misty dream,  
> I read, a year late, news from home -  
> And I remember the moon like smoke on the river  
> And a fisher-boat moored there, under my door.


	3. Arc I: patterns of ink and metal: +falling for the first time+

On the day prince Zuko, heir to the Fire Nation and future Fire Lord and Firebending Master, turns ten, he almost drowns.

It is a rather stupid incident, really. One of his birthday gifts had been a custom suit of armor. The formal design of the armor meant that it was too bulky to be practical for real battle but it was _real_ armor and the idea of letting go of something he has wanted for so long is not appealing. Usually, no child is required to spend a full day of ceremonies in a stifling cocoon of metal plating. Not even a prince. However, Zuko is more than a prince; Zuko is Zuko. His army of attendants, painfully familiar with the force of the boy's tantrums, surrendered to his insistence without struggle. Let him wear it till it wears him out, they decide. What's the worst that could happen? He'll fall into the garden pond, ha ha.

…Ha.

It happens.

One minute he is running across the bridge, unwatched and free, the next there is misstep, pitching one foot behind the other and down he goes. First there is only a simple confusion— _where did the bridge go?_ —the rush of gravity whistling past, until his body breaks the water's surface and Zuko goes under.

The water is deep.

Ironic that the future commander of the strongest navy in the world is rendered helpless in the water. Ironic, but true. For a moment, desperation is enough to send him back to the surface. Unfortunately, it is not enough to keep him there when thirty pounds of beautifully crafted tradition are hell-bent on dragging him below the cool, dark water. Strange that he is surrounded by water and yet his chest burns fiercely. Powerless, suffocating, and utterly furious, Zuko fights his fall with every sinking inch.

He's going to die-stupid-cold-water-stupid-water everywhere-going to die-die- _father_!-Idon'twanttodie ** _No!_**

No.

He doesn't die.

Suddenly, a great force shoves him upward through the water. Light and air tear away the darkness and Zuko crashes onto the earth, chest burning still. A hard tug and the helmet vanishes off his head, making it easier to turn over and vomit the water. Out, out, out, someone chants, hitting his back hard enough to make a distinct thumping sound against the armor plating. Out, out, out. Zuko's head reels and he's probably hallucinating because he can actually feel the water surge up his throat and out. A miserable century of retching later, he manages to get an elbow under him and sit up.

He looks at the stranger besides him.

The stranger looks back.

The stranger is a girl but that's not the strangest thing about her. In his groggy state, it's difficult for Zuko to identify exactly _what_ is so obviously out of place about the girl in front of him; he only knows that _something_ most definitely is.

She's small, and clearly younger than Zuko, probably eight or seven. In the fading light of early evening it is hard to tell the exact color of her skin but he thinks it may be darker than his, darker in a way he's not used to seeing. Her hair is dark too, upswept in a standard chignon common to very young nobility, or among common girls. The silk of her short jacket shines wetly, expensive, although the outfit itself is cut simply and missing the ornate embroidery particular to court noblewomen. Overall, though, there is nothing truly unconventional about her shape.

_It's the eyes_ , he thinks. _There's something weird about her eyes. They're…_

"That was really dumb," is the first thing she tells him; it's not the type of introduction the crown prince of the Fire Nation is used to. "Why did you jump into the water dressed like that?"

Zuko opens his mouth to growl that he didn't _jump_ , he fell, but somehow that sounds even more embarrassing—another bout of heaving shreds his voice. He coughs, chest burning with the effort to breathe past the coldness swallowed, and feels a light hand lay upon him.

"Don't fight it. Just let it out." Her voice has something, an accent or lack of, that he can't place. Something strange, unexpected. Foreign. "You're going to be okay. Let it out."

More dry heaves and aching, then a few sore breaths and coughs, and then Zuko is aware of the girl removing his armor. Her fingers dig into the elaborate knots keeping the pieces together with resolve, tugging until one arm is free and then the other. A soldier's daughter, he decides. Whose?

"What are you doing here?" is the first thing he says to her. "The inner gardens are forbidden to outsiders." The last word seems particularly appropriate. "Nobody can be here without permission."

"I have permission," she says calmly. "Do you?"

A ludicrous question. "I don't need permission."

"Why not?"

Ludicrous _and_ insane. "Princes don't need permission for anything." Which is almost nearly true and besides she's…looking at him funny.

"You're the prince?"

"Of course," Zuko snaps. Well, he tries to but there's still water lodged in his nose; the proclamation turns into a sneeze. A wet one.

"Oh." She doesn't look impressed, or awed, or surprised; instead, she looks thoughtful. "I thought you'd be taller." One small hand reaches out to touch his sodden hair. "And drier…Prince Zuko." She adds the last part with measured hesitation, slowly, as if testing the words. Abruptly, the hand testing his hair flows down to touch his cheek; as gentle fingers settle over the suddenly sensitive skin, Zuko realizes that the weird thing about her eyes is that they're the softest, brightest, _clearest_ blue he's ever seen. He also realizes that a true prince does not tolerate being pawed by strange little girls and he should definitely be doing something about it. Really.

Except…

The warmth of her hand is a shocking contrast after the coldness of the pond. For a moment, he feels trapped between a force and a possibility, between the familiar and the unknown, between her hand and his skin. Zuko doesn't realize it, not yet, but in that moment he occupies the temperamental safety of escaping one twist of fate only to sink into another.

"Who _are_ you?" The touch drops away, the warmth vanishes, and the moment yields way to reality. Zuko is cold, confused, and missing a wrist guard from his armor. The girl stands, the prince's ornate helmet held between her hands, and looks towards the water. Away from him.

"I guess I'm nobody," she says.

That is how Katara meets Zuko.


	4. Arc I: patterns of ink and metal: +flowers in the ashes+

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The family is the test of freedom; because the family is the only thing that the free man makes for himself and by himself." _–Gilbert Keith Chesterton_

**#01 – Comfort**  
After an evening in the company of his brother, Iroh is bone-achingly eager to welcome the company of his blue-eyed ward.

**#02 - Kiss**  
Katara never holds his hand, not even when it's allowed and every scared line of her body wants to; but when close, trapped in a crowd, she brushes small fingertips over his and Iroh understands.

**#03 - Soft**  
Katara's punishment for sneaking into the library consists of a lecture about organization and a footstool to help her reach the higher shelves.

**#04 - Pain**  
"What unusual eyes," remarks the noblewoman and Katara looks away.

**#05 - Potatoes**  
She buries them in the garden while Iroh smiles, but it's too soon to tell if it's a planting or a funeral.

**#06 - Rain**  
It's the only time the dark, wet spots on her sleeve don't sadden him.

**#07 - Chocolate**  
"But ginseng is _still_ my favorite," she assures him.

**#08 - Happiness**  
The first time he hears Katara laugh, Iroh looses his last doubt about having refused mercy to a child dying in the snow.

**#09 - Telephone**  
The Dragon of the West's strange ward; the general's blue-eyed wonder; Iroh's foreign curio; the old man's latest _oddity_.

**#10 - Ears**  
Shadows in the hallways don't worry Katara; the mouths of their owners do.

**#11 - Name**  
The character for dragon is less complicated that she expects; the word and man don't have that much in common, apparently.

**#12 - Sensual**  
The curve of her jaw warns Iroh to brace himself for the future.

**#13 - Death**  
The helmet is an awkward weight in her hands; suddenly, Katara is glad it's an antique.

**#14 - Sex**  
Iroh's shock at her discovery is matched only by Katara's confusion at having the book ripped out of her hands.

**#15 - Touch**  
The hand on Katara's shoulder is warm, reassuring, but she doesn't relax until her feet back across the doorstep.

**#16 - Weakness**  
"Tell me about your nephew," she asks again.

**#17 - Tears**  
"Thank you," she mutters, reaching for the teacup with one hand and wiping her eyes with the other.

**#18 - Speed**  
Time is distance; the girl standing in his garden is a thousand miles beyond the mute on the deck's edge.

**#19 - Wind**  
"I don't know," Iroh says, "but the previous one was called Roku."

**#20 - Freedom**  
Because she may ask for anything and allowed to do the same, Katara chooses to sit in the garden and flip pebbles into the pond.

**#21 - Life**  
It's not so strange, Katara thinks, to wish for snow during a summer afternoon.

**#22 - Jealousy**  
Describing the prince's practice session, Iroh wonders at the look on Katara's face but is distracted from asking upon discovering the tea in his cup is inexplicably cold.

**#23 - Hands**  
Katara learns to play Pai Sho by listening to Iroh describe the tiles; she learns to win by studying the hand that moves them.

**#24 - Taste**  
The pepper flakes make her sneeze till water gathers at the corners of her eyes; Katara finishes the whole bag anyway.

**#25 - Devotion**  
Katara traces the black thread against the red cloth, silent; Iroh watches the Water girl outlined against the Fire insignia, and is torn.

**#26 - Forever**  
"A parent never forgets his child," Iroh reassures her, and the pain in his eyes convinces Katara to accept the words.

**#27 - Blood**  
"He doesn't really look like you," Katara says during their ride home, "but I think it'd be better if he did."

**#28 - Sickness**  
At the peak of fever, Katara calls out for her mother, crying; Iroh, hero of a nation, sits helplessly by her side.

**#29 - Melody**  
It took the discovery of three snapped flutes under the bed, a shamisen in the garden pond, and a horn in an orange tree, before Iroh acknowledged that Katara would not be taught what she didn't want to learn.

**#30 - Star**  
"They'll damage something," she says as another firework erupts above and the crowd cheers.

**#31 - Home**  
Silk instead of fur, iron instead of ice, silver instead of clay: the makings of her surroundings are a change easier to accept than forgive.

**#32 - Confusion**  
He reaches for her and Katara falls back, half asleep and unable to distinguish the man in the room from the soldier in her nightmares.

**#33 - Fear**  
She claims she can't remember their faces but Iroh notices Katara doesn't look up, at him, when she says it.

**#34 - Lightning/Thunder**  
The moment between the flash and the echo isn't long, but then neither is the walk to Iroh's room.

**#35 - Bonds**  
They share no blood, no common land, no recognizable similarity: but they are not strangers to each other, despite seeming so strange to others.

**#36 - Market**  
Catching each other's eye, they giggle, a girl and a general with pear juice running down their chins.

**#37 - Technology**  
Katara spreads new maps next to the old and waits for Iroh to explain how the Fire Nation has redesigned the world.

**#38 - Gift**  
Katara likes Iroh but no amount of affection is enough to warrant yet another stone three headed goat-monkey-frog-something in her room.

**#39 - Smile**  
She learns to smile without showing her teeth, and to speak without saying what she means.

**#40 - Innocence**  
Iroh does not think of her as a daughter because if he had a daughter he would never let her learn what Katara knows.

**#41 - Completion**  
History is not her favorite subject, but it's the one Katara's most attentive to; Iroh cements the interest by explaining that one cannot fathom an ending of an event without understanding the conditions of its start.

**#42 - Clouds**  
Katara knows Iroh is different from others, adults and otherwise, because it takes a special sort of person to find a winged frog in the sky.

**#43 - Sky**  
Katara watches the color of her sky reflect in the pond; Iroh watches the power of his hope reflect in the child.

**#44 - Heaven**  
"She was a very good person," Katara explains to Iroh while he hands her a stick of incense to light at the altar.

**#45 - Hell**  
Iroh doesn't question Katara's right to hate; instead, he marvels at her refusal to obey it.

**#46 - Sun**  
Come dawn, Katara's too exhausted to worry and falls asleep under the comforting weight of Iroh's hand on her hair.

**#47 - Moon**  
Katara talks to the moon with her eyes, silently, explaining what she doesn't want her guardian to hear.

**#48 - Waves**  
The screen is beautiful, an undeniable work of art, but its painted ocean is dry to the touch and thus useless.

**#49 - Hair**  
When she tries doing it from memory, hands shaky, strands slip out and tangle until finally Katara gives up and lets the maid bind her braids in the proper Fire Nation style.

**#50 – Supernova**  
"I forgive you, Iroh."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written according to the "alpha" set of 1sentence themes over on LJ, but never actually posted to the community.


	5. Arc I: patterns of ink and metal: +accidents+

The accidents begin later than Iroh expects.

First come the spills. A plague of incompetence sweeps over the house's pots and kettles; puddles of soup and wine and tea seem to cause a fall a day. The kitchen staff despairs over the likelihood of ever finding a sane container again until, suddenly, the spilling comes to an end as unexplainable as its beginning.

Next comes the cold. This is a happier oddity and few seem to notice, though the cook does remark, with vague happy satisfaction, that the food storage is in especially fine condition despite the hotness of the season, and barrels of wine emerge from the cellar cold. But when someone finds a layer of frost on a melon suspicion stirs. The cold vanishes the same week the melon is discovered. Afterwards, no one bothers with the subject.

Well, almost no one.

Iroh remembers, with fond amusement, that when his nephew turned five there was a sudden rash of singed tapestries throughout the palace. And that nobody ever did figure what happened to the carpets in the west pavilion, though the servants spent a week grumbling about the soot.

Iroh summons Katara.

She arrives promptly, a lacquered tray of tea ready in her hands, and she does not look guilty. Just very, very wary.

"I was wondering," Iroh says after the tea is poured and the two are settled, "if there is something you would like to tell me."

"About what, Master Iroh?"

"Oh. Well." He sets his cup down and waves a vague hand through the air. "How old are you now, little one?"

"Ten, Master Iroh."

"Ten. That's an impressive number. A person builds up a lot of questions over ten years, I should think."

Katara's hands fold neatly in her lap. "Questions about what, Master Iroh?"

"The world in general, perhaps. Or the body in particular." He raises his cup to take another sip of tea. It is, of course, excellently prepared. "Sooner or later, a body begins to undergo certain peculiar changes and I thought we might have a talk about some of them. It happened to me too, you know."

"Is this about the moon and the river and avoiding pale colors at the end of the month? Because Kozue, the head maid, already talked to me about that." Her brows knit together, puzzled. "Wait. It _does_ happen to boys?"

Iroh coughs tea up his throat. "Ah. No, not _that_ talk."

"Is it about the eel?"

"…Eel?"

"Like how a boy has an eel and a girl has a flower, though when I asked what sort of flower, Kozue wouldn't tell me; she just said it's a closed flower and that it has to stay under wraps even if the eel has handsome legs. Except I've never seen an eel with legs and why would I wrap flowers?"

"No." Iroh sets down his cup. This might be more difficult than he originally thought. "This definitely isn't _that_ talk, either."

"Then what is it about?"

Sometimes honesty works best. "Bending, maybe?"

Katara's hands freeze in her lap, blue eyes wide. Still, she remains silent.

"Katara, I understand that it is not your fault."

Her eyes widen even more. She moves forwards so suddenly that the edge of her knee bumps the tray and tea flows in a flat, low arc across the floor. Before Iroh can open his mouth to say anything, anything at all, footsteps sound from the outside and the tearoom door flies open.

"I did it," says Prince Zuko, face flushed from his sprint.

"You did?" Iroh asks, still shaking tea from his sleeve.

"He didn't!" Katara shouts, jumping to her feet.

"Yes, I did." Zuko says to Iroh. To Katara, "Shut up."

Iroh looks from one to the other, an ironic scenario unfolding in his understanding. "And what exactly did you do?"

The twelve-year old straightens, every inch a prince and nervous all the same. "I taught her."

"Taught her…?"

"Bending."

"Ah. _That_." Iroh wrings the last bit of tea out his sleeve. "I see."

Silence stretches among the three, Zuko standing, Iroh sitting, and Katara kneeling to mop the spill. She speaks without looking up. "I didn't mean to freeze the melons. It was an accident. I won't do it again."

"Well, that's good news," Iroh nods. "I like melon. And the spills?"

Zuko starts before Katara can. "She didn't have any control then. That's how I found out, by walking in when she was trying to get water to rise out of a jug."

"I just wanted to see if I could do it," Katara whispers.

Iroh looks at her. "Can you?"

Slowly, the girl raises her face from the floor, eyes flickering from uncle to nephew. Zuko nods. Biting her lip, she raises a hand to hold over the wet floor. At first there is nothing, not a ripple, and then a golden length of tea begins to spiral upwards. It wavers like a stalk of transparent grass, and then collapses, spraying Iroh's sleeve once more.

"Sorry," the girl, the _Waterbender_ , mutters.

"She's not very good," Zuko explains without tact. Katara's answering glare is motivated by habit more than anger. Both children turn to look at Iroh with identical expressions of worry. Worlds of possibility spin through Iroh's mind.

"Well," he says. "Let us see where we can go from here."


	6. Arc I: patterns of ink and metal: +appearances+

Katara sees the Fire Lord's face once, and only once. The incident is barely a minute long ("Raise your head, child." She obeys. "A pretty one, Iroh.") but it carves into her, a memory whose grooves are filled with molten gold—or an incision she can't sew shut. That night, safe in her bed, Katara lies awake reconstructing the face of the man aiming to own the world.

Next morning, she drinks tea with Iroh; they talk about a little about the weather (the storms are coming), a little about what's in their cups (a new blend, she finds it bitter), and about his latest addition to the library and her studies (the scroll elaborately describes a confrontation that happened two centuries and a night ago; he tries to help her understand what happened.)

Later in the day, halfway through a convoluted metaphor comparing war to a dance, Katara decides, with all the confidence in her possession, that the boy at her side does **_not_** look like the Fire Lord. Of course, actually saying this to Zuko is mistake; boiling over, the prince storms out of the room, thundering that he looks like his father, everyone knows he looks like his father, it's his father and who the **_hell_** else would Zuko look like?

Like yourself, she says when he returns.


	7. Arc I: patterns of ink and metal: +ties/bonds+

_**"**_ It is one of life's most inconvenient trials that a good student does not necessarily make a good teacher. A pity, Iroh reflects, because Zuko truly is an excellent student. But…

"Again," his nephew orders. "And again and _again_ until you get it right. What's the matter with you? Six year-olds manage to learn this set in a day!"

"Six year-old _Fire_ benders maybe." Katara rubs a small brown hand across her forehead. "I'm not—"

"—in a position to make excuses. Unless _Water_ benders are defective by nature." He eyes the girl's slumped shoulders and tired face with prominent disdain. The gesture is deliberate, though not completely fake, but it has what Iroh assumes is the desired effect; Katara's stance levels, eyes narrowing, body moving into position. The girl is not without potential. Or pride. From his angle, Iroh can see what she cannot: the approval in Zuko's eyes.

"Again. You have to be ready to-"

"Prince Zuko." Both children turn to him, unconsciously expectant. "That is enough for today. You can try again tomorrow, yes?"

"But tomorrow is—oh, _**fine**_." The boy's shoulders sag. "Fine. We'll try it again tomorrow."

Behind him, Katara's face is dejected. Perhaps this wasn't a good idea, Iroh thinks. They can instruct her about endurance, discipline, conditioning and resilience, but neither uncle nor nephew, Master nor prince, can teach Katara what she yearns to know; ultimately, they can prepare her but offer no resolution. The difference between them, Water and Fire, is simply too great to ignore. In Iroh's opinion it is a tragedy.

In Zuko's, it is a challenge.

"I don't understand why it isn't working." Glaring at the teacup in his hand, he sets it down without drinking. "You're moving correctly, most of the time, so why isn't the water responding? What's _wrong_ with it?"

Katara refills Iroh's cup, watching the tea pour down in a graceful arc, before looking up with an exhausted expression. She picks her words slowly; he can see their careful selection happening behind her eyes.

"It feels wrong," she says finally. "Or not wrong, but not exactly right. Like trying to write with the wrong hand. Even when I manage to follow your speed, it winds up falling out of synch because following you isn't—well, I can't _**just**_ follow you. It's not enough."

The lines around Zuko's mouth tighten in frustration. "It should be."

"Well, it's not." Tiredness chafes Katara's manners. "At this rate you'll be Airbending before I'll be Waterbending because–" Her expression freezes, anger suddenly overcome by a stab of inspiration. Iroh recognizes the look; it's the same one she wears moments before unscrambling a particularly intricate line of text or dissecting an especially intricate blend of tea.

"Let me borrow this," she says and snatches Zuko's still full teacup before the boy has a chance to protest. She sets the cup in the middle of the training room, the same spot they've been circling for the past three hours, and takes a long measured step back. Zuko rises to watch, coming closer.

"What are you up to?" Apparently Zuko recognizes the look too. Katara answers by pulling out the bright ribbon holding her dark braids.

"Give me your hand," she says.

Zuko doesn't move.

"Please," she says.

The prince extends his hand, rigid. The girl raises her hand to meet it. Carefully, she twines the thin length of silk around their hands, binding the two together loosely. Judging from the studious concentration on Katara's face the laxity is intentional.

"Now," she says when the last bit of ribbon is tucked into a baggy knot. "Let's go through it again."

The meaning of her idea surfaces quickly; three steps into the sequence Zuko's hand moves too fast and the tie unravels. The boy waits and watches with open displeasure as Katara redoes the binding.

"Again."

And again and again. Each time the ribbon finds a chance to slip, the sequence breaks down, and they return to the beginning. Go too fast, too aggressive, and the knot comes undone. Go too slow, too hesitant, and the sequence falls into ruin. Harmony is the goal.

Iroh watches the two with growing fascination, admiring one for his dedication, one for her ingenuity, both for their determination. Together, they push and pull, driving ambition against patience, knowledge against intuition, violence against serenity. The power of concentration wraps around them so thickly that neither child immediately notices the moment their work breeds true.

But Iroh does.

Zuko's hands are open flat, and Katara's mirror him; between them, an invisible circle is traced, its never-ending beginning bringing the pair into synchronization. The sequence is transformed into a new pattern, a compromise.

Iroh watches tea slowly spiral upward out of the cup on the floor, and he watches Fire and Water continuing to move closer, and he watches Katara and Zuko smile at each other.


	8. Arc I: patterns of ink and metal: +barter+

Zuko is not used to asking for anything. As a prince he has always been provided for and left without need. When he actually manages to discover an absence in the abundance of all that is considered his, he does not ask for it; the prince demands, orders, and, usually, receives. This is perhaps not the best standard to impress upon a child but the fault cannot be placed on the boy himself; as a prince he's taught, through words and patterns, that everything available can, and thus will, be his. Eventually.

 _But there's always something_ , thinks Iroh. _There is always something to force a mind into hearing a need and thinking it's a whim. There is always the want for more, for something undeniably real._ Leave it to his nephew to complicate that particular truth of life by choosing some _ **one**_ to be that something.

"I cannot," Iroh says, "give you what you are asking for."

"Why not?"

"Because, Prince Zuko, people are not to be passed from hand to hand like sacks of rice. People are people, not things." Many among the nobles and military think differently. Too many. Iroh was hoping his nephew, proud and certain though he is, was not growing up to be one of them. Yet Zuko has asked him…this.

Zuko has asked for Katara.

"You have plenty of servants, prince Zuko. In the future you will have thousands more, along with armies, ministers, and a nation of supplicants. Don't take from your poor, rickety uncle the only person who can brew a good cup of tea to warm these old bones into life."

"Anyone can make tea. You don't need her especially for _that_."

Iroh does not ask what Zuko needs her for. "But Katara makes the _best_ tea."

The boy fidgets, frowning at the steaming cup in front of him with ire. "She would still make tea whenever you wanted it, I wouldn't care. Or you could both move into the palace," he adds hopefully.

Iroh sighs. "Court air gives me headaches." A disapproving note shades his tone, camouflaging a note of teasing. "And Katara is too young to enter the seraglio."

His nephew's pale skin tinges a compromising pink. "I wouldn't put her _there_. Ever."

Iroh wonders if "ever" will last past sixteen. "Prince Zuko, why are you asking this?"

"Because—" The boy's hands clench; he looks ready to challenge, to contest, or maybe to simply crack the table in two. Instead, he exhales and relaxes his grip until both palms are flat against each knee. "Because if she were my attendant…then she wouldn't have to be afraid of anyone...hurting her."

Ah, thinks Iroh in enlightenment. The nightmares. Their visits lessened over the past two years but still they come, leaving Katara shaking in their wake. At nine she no longer wakes screaming, as she did at seven, but instead rises to fill a teapot and wait for morning. Some nights she will swallow a draught to leaden her limbs and fall empty into slumber, and some nights the emptiness scares her more than the dreams. Come morning, Iroh will find her watching the sky lighten with a dim hurting in her gaze. It was only a matter of time, really, before Zuko found her too.

"It would not help," he tells the boy and watches frustration return, knowing enough now to recognize the desperation beneath the request.

"No one will bother a _prince's_ personal attendant. No one would dare. Once she realizes that she's safe, that nobody can hurt her, Katara would—"

"—would still have to face what haunts her." But how do you explain this to a boy who is experiencing the desire to protect for the very first time, not in the grand sense of honor and nationality but for the sake of something as vast and inexplicable as friendship? (Katara is, Iroh thinks sadly, the only friend Zuko can truly call his own, instead of a consequence of his status.) There is honor in this.

But there is responsibility too, debt, the guilty charge that stretches invisibly between warden and prisoner, conqueror and refugee; the Fire Nation's fortune is Katara's sorrow as much as it is Zuko's birthright. Katara's fear, the armored monsters that rip her dreams, is the voice of experience.

How does one explain such injustice to a boy? Especially a boy like Zuko, whose soul shines untarnished from his eyes, believing honor is invincible.

"I cannot," Iroh says.

After Zuko leaves, Iroh wonders if Katara will ever grow beyond horrors' reach, and if Zuko will ask again, and whether it is ever truly fair to ask any child to become an adult.

 


	9. Arc I: patterns of ink and metal: +sweet/sour+

"Let me get this straight: you peel it half way, scalp the top, and then suck on it? That is so uncivilized."

"Right. Can I have your share then?"

"What share? We've got a whole bowl of them; what are you planning to do, eat your weight in oranges? Hn. Then again, considering the shrimp in question it wouldn't take much, would it— ** _hey_**!"

"Oops, sorry, did it squirt you? Gosh, oh my, how clumsy of me, your highness."

"…You're such a brat. Uncle should teach you better manners."

"Right after he teaches you patience and how to pull your nose out of the air?"

"I can be patient. I can be patient like anything. For example, I'm patiently watching you mangle an orange like a blind monkey with a chisel."

"I'm _peeling_."

"You're terrible at it."

"Am not!"

"Are too. Totally."

"Am not—hey, give that back! It's mine!"

"It's Uncle's, and does he know you're stealing priceless antique daggers to brutalize innocent fruit?"

"Because Master Iroh worries about that sort of thing _so_ much. I'll just say the ghost of the eastern tearoom stole it to wage war with the ghost of the upstairs left closet over the right to court the spirit princess of the celadon sugar bowl."

"Nobody in their right mind would believe a word of that."

"And neither will Master Iroh. But it'll make him smile."

"…which is why you made it up."

"Yep. Can I have the knife back now?"

" _Dagger_."

"Sharp pointy thing with the pretty hilt. _Please_."

"No. Shut up and pay attention; this is how _humans_ do it. Don't curl your whole hand over the hilt; keep it loose enough to move the wrist freely, to keep the blade mobile. Here, give me your hand—like this, see? Firm, but quick. Don't fuss with it: never hold a weapon, if you don't know what you're going to do with it."

"You sound like a teacher."

"Because I'm _teaching_ you—"

"I meant one of _your_ teachers, the ones in the palace. The mean looking ones that never smile at you, or congratulate you, or anything."

"I don't need their praise; I need to be strong. What difference does it make to you, anyway? Just because Uncle fawns over every stupid calligraphy scrawl and the brainless poem you parrot during tea like—Katara, wait! Where are you going?"

"To find my ink stone and throw it at your big head."

"What about the oranges?"

"I'm not hungry."

"But it was your dumb idea to order them in the first place."

"I don't care; eat them till your eyes sting and your hair turns yellow!"

"What is that supposed to mean—Katara! Come back here; that's an _order_!"

"I don't care!"

"You really are a peasant! _**Fine**_. Go hide under your books and teacups; sooner or later one or the other will fall and squash you flat like a magg—ow, damn it."

"What are you—oh. You're bleeding, oh, wow, you're really, really bleeding."

"Yeah. Isn't it amazing? Whatever. Close your mouth, it's only a little nick—what are you doing?"

"Nothing amazing. Come on, give me your hand."

"I said it's only a little—oh, fine. Here."

"Thank you. Now, hold still. I mean it, no wriggling."

"I don't _wriggle_. And you're going to ruin that sleeve completely; silk stains easily."

"Like you know a whit about laundry, _Prince_ Zuko. Besides I like my handkerchief more than I like this robe; the handkerchief is luckier. Oh, stop frowning and relax. It'll be fine; blood washes out easier than chocolate, you know."

"Actually, I didn't."

"I figured."

"Shut up. Are you done yet?"

"Almost, just let me—ok, there. Clean and clear. It's probably going to sting for a while, though."

"Not probably: definitely. So much for handling oranges."

"Unless you peel it half way, scalp the top, and then suck on it. No juice on your fingers that way."

"…you really are a brat."

"Yep. Pass the knife and I'll _think_ about forgiving you. Maybe."

"Like I care. Here."

"Thanks."

"..."

"...Katara?"

"Still thinking."

"It's not as if I mean it that way, you know—"

"I know."

"...right. Careful with the knife."

"I am."

"Just saying."

"Prince Zuko?"

"...yes?"

"I forgive you. Ok, this one is done; ready to give it a try?"

"...sure. Katara?"

"Uh-huh?"

"Thank you. For the orange, I mean. This is—it's sweet."

"I think so too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written as part of a birthday creampuff piece called "dates" for darkchan a.k.a. She of the Amazing Icon Making Powers. Unfortunately, I have yet to finish the rest of it. (I suck at gift giving, really.)
> 
> Also, the apparent inspiration behind the luminescent Minuiko's [entry for Zutara Week](http://minuiko.deviantart.com/art/ATLA-Tempest-in-a-Teacup-315566537).


	10. Arc I: patterns of ink and metal: +transcending+

_I know who you are._

Katara watches recognition unfold on the man's face, the mind behind it bringing together handfuls of the past and present into a single brand to press upon her. His eyes mock her camouflage; the plum silk robe with its modish flowing sleeves dripping past her fingertips, the silver stenciled sash wrapped in the proper modest style, the delicate ornaments decorating her hair, smooth with scented rice water. Each of these things is as particular as a flake of gold applied to a precious picture, a meticulous design of respectability and advantage. Katara knows her appearance is an illusion, artful and kindly given, but without substance nonetheless. Most days the pretty clothes and matching gestures are enough to guarantee the protection of invisibility, a curtain to draw between who she is and who she must pretend to be. Wrapped up in the convincing trappings of Fire Nation elegance, singing the role of the Fire Nation girl she isn't, Katara is apt at avoiding identification.

This time, however, there is no escape.

Of course, she recognizes him too. It's easy, devastatingly so. But then three years are a small amount of time to anyone except a child (in which case three years are the size of an ocean, or the length of a new life.) The few changes present, his sideburns a little trimmer, his brow a little wider, his skin a shade more weathered, are negligible. She does notice the difference in uniform, translating the armor markings as evidence of a promotion from when she saw him last.

_Captain_ , she thinks. _Captain Zhao._

"Well," he says, looking down at her, his face recovering from surprise and resettling into unpleasant, unconvincing congeniality. That too, the constant pretense in him, is unchanged from how she remembers it. "Who would have thought we'd meet again?"

Katara stares at him, silent. Paralyzed. In the back of her throat, the acrid scent of smoke drags its nails along the walls. Everything she has goes into keeping her breathing steady. ( _Strength comes from the breath_ , Master Iroh says. _It cannot be forced, only felt_. Zuko has trouble understanding this; Katara doesn't.)

"You look well, little fish. Ah, but not so little anymore, are you?" He smiles. Katara remembers the outlines of fire against the snow, how the screams broke the air. "And hardly a fish now, in those fine clothes. What a pretty thing you've cleaned up to be; one could almost mistake you for a civilized creature in this light." The smile widens; she wants to smash coal against his teeth. "You must've been born under a very lucky star, girl, to have things turn out like this. I trust you feel properly grateful."

Under the cover of the long, exquisitely embroidered sleeve, Katara's fingers curl into a fist.

"Still so quiet, though. I'm surprised; are you naturally silent or merely bashful? But old acquaintances like us have no need to be shy with each other." Zhao's hand rises up to drift towards the jade flowers in her hair. "Or has the illustrious General Iroh succeeded in teaching proper reticence to his wild pet?"

"Don't touch me." His hand stiffens, inches away from contact. Memories of smoke and snow turn Katara's voice into marble, unbreakable; its polish offers no purchase for his scorn. From the hollow center of her gut, she feels the coldness rise and fortify. "Get out of my sight."

His confidence thins, exposing the ill-kept arrogance beneath. "Apparently I gave your manners too much credit; Iroh hasn't explained the importance of showing correct respect to your betters, little fish."

"Master Iroh," Katara says with icy, faultlessly accented diction, "taught me that a man without shame has no honor. And a man without honor doesn't deserve respect, only pity." She unclenches her fists, feeling her expression sculpt itself into a replica of courtly disdain. "Who would lower her head to a worthless being like that?"

Now it is his hands that are clenched in anger, struggling for control. An ugly darkening in the man's expression warns Katara to run. She wants to. Instead, she tilts her chin higher and stares at Zhao without flinching. The energy between them trembles like heat coming off hot iron, palpating like a heart laid open by a knife, a hateful wound.

_I know what you are; I remember._

"Katara!"

The tension splinters; Zuko's voice rings unapologetically clear through the hall, immediately changing the atmosphere. Both Katara and Zhao instinctively turn to watch the prince approach.

Zhao bows low. "Your Highness, how good to—"

Zuko ignores him. "Where have you been?" he asks Katara, radiating impatience. "I told you to wait in the west wing; this is north."

"I got lost." To Katara the various palace quarters look aridly the same: grand, vast, and intimidating. She does not like echo created by the high ceilings or the way torchlight oils the decorative ironwork of the numerous huge doors. The place feels too much like a monument and too little like anybody's home. Sometimes she wonders if being born royal means being born immune to a certain type of fear, the fear of empty spaces and their demands. "I always get lost when on my own here."

"Then don't go wandering off," Zuko snaps. Momentarily his attention shifts away from her to settle on Zhao. "Who's this?"

"Captain Zhao, Your Highness." Another bow. "I was just about to offer the young miss some assistance in finding her way. Such a pure beauty, after all, should not be left unescorted." Zhao's smile is polite, conservative, and threatening to any who's aware of the quicksand beneath its surface. "One can never be too careful."

You burned them. I saw you raise your hand and I saw the fire come; I saw the look on your face when you did it. You weren't fighting a war; you were destroying, taking because you could and didn't want to stop. You didn't even see them.

Murderer.

Savage.

_**Firebender.** _

"Katara?" She surfaces from the memory, disoriented and numb, surprised to find Zuko's hand on her wrist. It's unusual for him to touch her; the heat of his palm passes through the thin silk of Katara's sleeve, a glow sinking into the bone. "Are you unwell?"

He's worried; she knows the signs: the brittle edge his temper adopts when disturbed by things Zuko can't confront directly. Katara looks at this boy, a prince, the future emblem of the culture that is warring against the world, prince of the people who took her away from all she held dear. He is a Firebender. He will be the Fire Lord. He is the nephew of the man she respects and the son of the man she fears. He is proud and demanding and has eyes the color of raw gold. But he's also Zuko and when Katara looks at him she sees that before all else.

"It's all right; I'm fine." She reassures the boy, this powerful but painfully innocent boy, who is her friend despite the rules of the world around them. "Thank you."

"Come on," he says, letting go of her wrist. "I have something to show you; Uncle sent over another history scroll. About the _Earth_ Kingdom. It's too dull to read alone."

Katara nods and wonders at how easily her paralysis crumbles beneath Zuko's simple, clean blaze of self-assurance. She knows he won't look behind when they walk, won't check to see if she follows, but will simply expect her to be there. It is a sign of egotism, but also, unexpectedly, of trust.

Pausing, she looks back at Zhao.

Etiquette excuses Zuko from having to bid any sort of formal goodbye to Zhao, his elder, the prince's status overriding common protocol. It would be different if Zuko had at any point addressed the man directly; such a connection would create certain polite obligations. But Zuko has not. Zhao stands ignored and thus, subtly, insulted. Katara understands it is not a deliberate slight on the boy's part, subtle or otherwise; it is simply…Zuko. Behind the prince's back, Katara's and Zhao's eyes meet, silently acknowledging the intensity of their connection. She watches the words choke up in his throat, stuck between the pretense of courtesy and sincere resentment.

"Thank you," Katara says, softly, "for your assistance, Captain Zhao. I will not forget to repay you in the future. For everything."

It is hard, so very hard, to turn her back on him, the enemy, but it gets easier with every step she takes. Zhao's hateful gaze spills acid down her back. In the past three years, she's grown used to glancing over her shoulder at whatever threat the shadows hold.

Today, Katara goes forward without looking back.


	11. Arc I: patterns of ink and metal: +trial by fire+

She wants to see him.

"He doesn't want to see anyone," Iroh explains, exhausted. He has spent the past two nights burning every wick and pulling every string in an attempt to salvage the disaster wrought and received by his nephew. He has visited his brother twice, striving to temper the punishment into a compromise that will not leave the kingdom heirless. So far the results have been less than promising.

Zuko refuses to see him. In fact, Zuko refuses to see anyone; only the physicians have been allowed a few obligatory hours of tolerance before being banished from the prince's apartments. Even in the depth of his darkest hour, Zuko remains indomitable.

But Katara is stubborn too and two hours later she is following Iroh into the palace outer wings, towards the exiled prince's relocated quarters. Dressed in the pale, long silks of a scribe, eyes downcast and face blank, she draws no attention. A tray laden with a pot of tea, two cups, and a bowl of soup sits firmly in her hands. When they reach the locked doors, she detaches herself from Iroh's side and stands before the guards without saying a word. The guards, not knowing what to make of this reedy girl or the tea tray in her brown hands, or the Dragon of the West behind her, gaze at Iroh for guidance.

"Let her pass." He does not add, _if she can_. They move aside, well trained into obeying orders. Katara bows to Iroh, murmurs polite thanks to the guards, sets down the dinner tray, and then proceeds to start kicking the thick door with all her strength.

Dumbfounded, but not exactly astonished, Iroh watches her.

"Idiot! Vapid bombastic megalomaniac! Quit hiding, quit it right now, you blowhard! Cringe under the sheets all you want, sissy, but first you will damn well open this door and face me!"

Iroh, the guards, all the beings of heaven and administers of hell, look on with horrid fascination while the girl continues to barrage the door, and the one behind it, without mercy. Or shame: eventually Katara's insults leave the realm of the polite to travel among such creative diversity that Iroh is impressed in spite of himself. Apparently the past five years of Katara's keeping were not nearly as sheltered as he assumed.

The alarm of the rising commotion is nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to the shock of the door wrenching open. Katara's cries halt immediately, one foot frozen in mid-kick. She stares.

Zuko stares back.

It will not be, the physicians assured, a significantly debilitating scar. The burn was too precise, too controlled, to cause true damage. Iroh knows his brother, and he knows his nephew, and he knows that the damage dealt is more than true enough. This is a wound whose brutality goes beyond the authority of blood and bone, beyond mind and sight; it's about heart. The physical aspect of the act, Iroh understands, is a minor evil. And it _is_ evil, a direct strike against innocence and trust, a crime recognizable to anyone with a working heart.

"Go away," the exiled prince hisses to the stunned foreigner.

She doesn't budge. With one sudden movement, Zuko grabs her wrist, the one clutched over her heart, as if to shield it, and pulls her forward. Close, their profiles show an ugly contrast. Yet there is a raw echo of sympathy; translucent with shock, her face reflects the horror and pain he dares not show. The girl does nothing to break free.

"Leave me alone," Zuko orders with lethal softness.

Katara's voice is a shade away from silence but still Iroh overhears, "Coward."

Zuko's throws off his grip, pushing, but Katara has braced herself; she doesn't stumble at the shove. The two stare at each other with hopeless resolution.

Two days ago Iroh watched a boy fall, burn, for the callous sake of pride. Then it was a surrender of a child's faith to the devastating laws of the world. Now, Katara's head slowly bows in obedience to Zuko's glare, and Iroh recognizes the voice of sacrifice.

This boy. This girl. _His_ children if not in blood then by the unspoken commandments of heart and honor, and in their darkest moment of need Iroh finds his hands empty of aid. The Dragon of the West has never felt more defeated.

"Jellyfish," Katara says. The comment seems addressed to her shoes, or the hem of her robe, but Zuko's unmarked eye narrows.

"I ordered you to—"

Katara looks up at Zuko. The sudden movement changes the air of the moment; Iroh can feel something rise against the pressure and he knows, with joyous clarity, that she is going to surprise them all again.

"I refuse to take orders from a spineless jellyfish." She picks up the tray. "Even if that jellyfish _**is**_ a prince."

A muscle twitches in Zuko's jaw. It is not, Iroh suspects, a gesture of anger but…astonishment. Still: "How dare you, you stupid Water peasant—"

"Shut. Up." Katara bites out. "Please." Shoulders set, tray firmly clenched, she marches past the glowering prince into the darkened room. Iroh barely has time to register her departure or the answering storm of outrage on Zuko's ruined face before the boy turns on his heel and blasts after her.

The door slams shut behind them.

The shouting begins.

It is too muffled to reveal words, but Iroh can imagine the scene being carved on the walls inside. Five years of friendship are being unleashed to rail against pride, against pity, against the desolate places newly scorched into Zuko's soul, against the sadness underneath Katara's horror.

There is a shrill crack of porcelain, and the whoosh of released heat, a cry, and then silence. Straining, Iroh hears only the pounding of his own blood and breathing.

The door opens. Katara's face is pitched tight, livid, and her eyes are wide with a suspicious brightness. The sleeve of her robe is singed.

"If it's not too much trouble," she says in a tone Iroh has never heard her use before and never suspected she had, "could someone please bring more soup? As well as another teacup? _Please_."

Hell would obey her.

She's trembling. Iroh notices the fine quiver running down one small arm into the small hand digging small fingers into the weave of her robe; a silk trail of fireflies is being crushed in her fist. But her gaze is invincible, and she stands small and determined in her mission to be a blue-eyed barrier between a hurt boy and the world.

If Katara had been at the duel, Iroh wonders, would she have looked away?

New cups and more soup arrive. She accepts the tray with faultless courtesy, the poise of her manners unmarred by the severity of her anger, and steps back into room. The door closes without a sound.

Iroh waits for the shouting to resume.

It doesn't.


	12. Arc II: drowning the moon: +daybreak+

Sometimes she sleepwalks.

This is a rare occurrence reserved for nights when the nightmares are too heinous for Shuang's tea to overcome, and Katara suffers the episodes, despite having scant memory of the experience in the morning. It would take a harder man than Iroh, indeed it would take a hard man overall, to not pity the bruised shadows under her eyes. More troubling than the fatigue, however, is the matter of location. In the confines of his estate, her sleepwalking followed a pattern; there were a set number of spots she could be found in. The library. The kitchen. The garden. In the morning, they knew where to find her.

On the ship, it is different. As if compensating for the new lack of space, Katara's sleepwalking turns hazardously random. She drifts into the mess hall, curls up on the soldiers' bunks, tucks her small self into a corner of the helm. Iroh can discern no pattern in the wandering, and he worries about the crew mistaking her affliction for madness; Katara is already a clear oddity among them—he does not want to see her shunned. But Iroh's concerns prove unneeded; the crew does not shun her, nor do they express disgust for the weakness. Instead they are...sympathetic. They allow Katara to roam freely in her daze, maintaining a careful watch to make sure she doesn't head overboard or into the engine furnace. When she falls asleep in a stranger's bed, shivering, she wakes up with a blanket wrapped around her. In the morning no one mocks, no matter how discretely, and breakfast will usually have the addition of steamed pears filled with comforting honey. Pleased but puzzled by the wealth of concern, Iroh wonders at its origins.

It is Lieutenant Ji who sheds light on the mystery, appearing at Iroh's door one night with a familiar bundle of padded sleeping robes and tousled dark hair in his arms. Gently, he settles the girl down on the bed with a tenderness and lack of fumbling that suggests he has done similar tasks before. Iroh watches the man adjust the pillow to better cradle Katara's head.

"I have a daughter only a little older than her," the lieutenant explains softly.

So the crew is kind. Committed to a quest many believe to be a fool's errand, they are under the constant temptation of feeling lost and thus find it easy to sympathize with the little blue-eyed stray in their midst.

Zuko's reaction is greatly less understanding.

The sleepwalking is news to him, and unwelcome. When he demands why the matter wasn't mentioned before, Katara, her patience worn out by a bad night, snaps that he never asked, so quit growling about it! It doesn't concern him, does it? _And it's not like there's something you can do about it_ , is the last barb she slings in his direction. The rest of breakfast is spent in prickly silence, Iroh's banter failing to subdue the stinging atmosphere. The two combatants refuse to look at each other, their postures radiating the promise of a lengthy avoidance.

Thus it's understandably surprising when two days later Katara is slumped outside Zuko's door with her eyes closed and her breathing peacefully deep. A passing guard discovers the girl and, being a less practiced man than Ji, makes the innocent mistake of trying to rouse her. Katara's scream is a blind gush of panic and shock. It rebounds through the hall and penetrates the iron walls to wake Zuko, who throws open his door to find Katara hysterically clawing at the well-meaning hand around her arm.

What follows next is a brief, scorching explosion of sharp words (Zuko), clumsy and stunned apologies (the guard), and the ragged muffled sobs of a scared child (Katara.)

It is the first time Zuko sees her cry.

Left alone, the two of them stand equally disoriented in the clutter of the moment. Finally, Katara drags a sleeve across her puffy eyes, too tired and miserable to summon proper manners or feel embarrassed by their absence, and mutters, "It's okay. I'm sorry for disturbing you, Prince Zuko. I-I'll go back to my room now. And I'll lock the door better this time. Or something. Sorry."

She avoids looking at him, but her slumped shoulder and pinched face are a loud cry of dejection. The tears have clumped her eyelashes into wet triangles.

_Not your concern,_ she'd said. And, _it's not like there's something **you** can do about it. _

Zuko says, "Come in. You can fall asleep here tonight."

What is stranger, that he offers or that she accepts? In the end, both actions weigh the same. Katara curls up on the banished prince's bed; Zuko watches the Waterbender bring her knees to her chest, palms folded under cheek, making herself as small a target as possible.

"Do you want me to leave lamps burning?" he asks.

"I like the glow," she says. "Only…will you stay? Please? Just until I fall asleep."

He stays.

In the morning, Katara wakes up in her own bed. Per usual she cannot locate much of the nightmares that held her, only the hollow tear left by their visit. Yet this morning the emptiness is not absolute. By its side are hazy memories shielded in gold, of being suspended but safe, supported, secure in the carriage of strong arms, and of warm fingers lightly brushing the wet corners of her eyes.

 


	13. Arc II: drowning the moon: +homespun+

He doesn't understand her.

"I don't understand you," she says, exasperated. "What's wrong with it; the color is lovely."

The color is blue. In Zuko's opinion there is nothing actually wrong with blue. Blue is blue, and that's fine. Pretty. Adequate. Whatever. He's used to blue. In fact, Zuko is more than used to blue; he's resigned to it. Blue seas all around him, blue skies always above him, blue eyes looking at him—okay, fine. He can deal with blue. But blue is not the problem.

"It's cheap." This is not praise but Katara ignores his condemnation with practiced, and artfully fake, obliviousness.

"A bargain." She smiles. "Master Iroh always says that the only thing better than finding what you're looking for is—"

"Don't say it," he warns, getting nothing but a second smile, blithe and unrepentant, in return. Zuko wonders if Uncle's presence would've made this latest shopping stroll more bearable but past experience tells him otherwise; this certain brand of madness cannot be curbed, only endured.

After all, it's not like there is anything _important_ to be done, oh no. Certainly, not like there's an _Avatar_ to find or a prince's honor, throne, and birthright to redeem. No, nothing like that. At least not when there's a market to ferret through for knickknacks, rubbish, and oversized pieces of decorative buffoonery. In this matter, at least, Katara is marginally saner than Iroh; she rarely buys items that are not needed.

But rarely does not mean never.

"I think it will make a nice robe. Don't you agree?"

"You have robes. _Nice_ ones," he bites out. "Why get something that looks like it was stolen off a peasant's back?"

Katara sighs and folds the length of cloth back into order. "Because silk stains easily and is a pain in the—well, _everything_ to clean; I need something more adaptable for the changing weather, anyway. And it does not look at all like it was 'stolen off a peasant's back,' not in the least."

The last bit is added for the shopkeeper's benefit and Zuko glares at him in retribution. Victory brings its own failure though, as the glare succeeds in cutting the fabric's price in half and they walk out of the shop with yards of blue in tow.

"Your skills of negotiation are miraculous as ever, Prince Zuko," she pipes. "Lucky for me that we ran into each other."

"Ran into each other" is Katara language referring to her disappearing from the watchful attention of the crew despite implicit warnings/orders to remain in sight and Zuko's resulting time consuming hunt for her among the crowded market. Once upon a time the vanishing act was forgivably rare, allowable; now she flees as soon as the anchor sinks an inch below the water. It seems _amazingly_ dense to have to _repeatedly_ explain the various dangers available to a small, pretty girl of thirteen, a girl who usually manages to give a fairly convincing impression of having more wits than hair, yet Zuko ends up having to bark reminders at her time after time after time after time. No matter how often he explains, or what volume he does it, Katara does not seem to understand her position in the situation.

Ironically, having acquired the fabric means they (well, _she_ , really, but having tolerated the foolishness for so long makes it seem cowardly to seek escape now) are now obligated to purchase countless other apparently necessary and entirely trivial items. A new pair of scissors (the old ones are sluggish), half a dozen needles of various size (the old ones are dull), oceans of thread (she's out of green, and yellow, and isn't this the nicest orange, let's get more), handfuls of buttons, etc etc. The wasteful intricacy with which the items are found is surpassed only by the ridiculous amount of consideration Katara lavishes upon selecting each one. A button is inspected from every tiny angle, a needle stabbed at everything within testing range. The thread selection almost breaks Zuko; Katara goes from spool to spool and back again enough times that he begins wondering how many it would take to knit a noose and strangle her. Or him. Whatever ends the torture, he doesn't care, only, blessed ancestors, let it end.

By the time they finally finish, having walked through the whole market thrice over, Zuko's patience is in tatters. Ever the contrast by his side, Katara looks satisfied and serene.

"Thank you," she says when they return to the docks. "You were a great deal of help."

The tatters snap. "Wonderful. I am so glad this day wasn't a complete waste time for everyone. Maybe in your infinite spare time you can knit a sweater for the Avatar. That is if we ever actually manage to find him sometime between shopping trips." Furious, he ignores the tightening of her mouth. "We don't have a single inkling of whether anyone has so much as mentioned the Avatar around here but at least the ship will have new curtains."

"A troop of Earthbenders passed through a month ago. They were heading to Omashu to meet with its king about expanding courier services; they mention new improvements in the design being inspired by airbending. Two month before that there was an oracle babbling about resurrection but he turned out to be a charlatan and they ran him out. But," she raises her eyes to stare at him over the packages in her arms, "there were a couple of silk merchants who returned from the Southern provinces saying they were impressed by the shrine relics seen there. Antiques from mountain villages. Mountain villages that remember trading goods with certain temples set on certain high mountaintops."

Zuko stares. Katara shrugs. "People come to the market to talk as much as they do to shop. Friendly chatter helps grease the bargaining wheels. Plus, who's going to guard their tongue around a thirteen-year-old girl buying soap and buttons?" Adjusting her grip, Katara turns away with a deliberately casual nod. "I bet the ship is finished restocking by now; we shouldn't keep them waiting. I'm sorry, by the way, for leaving without permission. Again."

Zuko does not say _thank you_. Zuko does not say _I'm sorry_. Zuko says nothing to the girl by his side, the girl who is thirteen years old, whom he has known for five years and counting, and who is capable of surprising him with mystic regularity. But then she's the girl who has never asked for his gratitude or apologies.

Wordlessly, he takes the heavy bundles from her hands and carries them to the ship.

They sail south.


	14. Arc II: drowning the moon: +legend/lore+

She finds him in the dark, alone.

It's late: too late for little girls to be wandering awake on darkened ship decks,but Katara is getting less little by the day. And it's past the time when all good princes should be in their rooms sleeping, meditating, preparing to fight another day. But Zuko doesn't rest much these days, wondering how much blood the word "good" has left to give.

He's tired of thinking things like this.

"Want to hear a story?"

No.

"It's about the Avatar."

...go on.

"Ah. Right. Well. Once upon a time there-"

Is it _that_ kind of story?

"It's a story. Listen first and complain later, okay? Or pretend I'm talking to the fish and ignore me. Anyway. Once upon a time there was a king who was greatly troubled."

Whose king?

"What?"

Whose king was he? From what country?

"His own. Doesn't matter, quit interrupting or this will never get anywhere."

Yes, it matters. What kind of information am I supposed to get out of this drivel if you don't even know what people he ruled?

"His own people. They were his people, and he was their king, and this is my story—oh, never mind. Getting you to listen is like getting a sane man to chew glass, why do I—"

Why was he troubled?

"…because he was in love with the moon."

Ah. A madman.

"No. He was a very brave, very noble king and so the moon loved him too, but there was a problem. See, the king loved the moon to the point that he couldn't bear a single night without her. Whenever the moon began to wane, as was her duty to do, the king's health would begin to weaken alongside."

A madman with a lunar allergy in reverse. Fascinating.

"And you're immune to romance. Hush. Each night the king begged the moon to stay, but how could she? Her task was to go and return; she couldn't defy her fate any more than a rock could turn to water or a tree learn to walk. Instead, she begged the king to travel the sky with her. But the king was bound by his own duties and could never abandon his kingdom."

A good king, then. Even if he was stark mad.

"I think so too. It's kind of sad, though, don't you think? Maybe that's one of the ways to distinguish a truly good king from a simply powerful one; a good king is willing to be unhappy for the sake of doing the right thing. A king who's nothing except powerful will just do whatever he wants."

…

"So they continued to live and love, suffering the separations. On the nights when the moon was hidden completely, her nature taking her too far to be seen, the king's heart would fall so low he chanced dying. Desperate, they turned to the Avatar for help."

Which Avatar? Water, earth, fire, or air?

"Don't know. He was the Avatar, right, and had been the Avatar for a very long time; it probably didn't matter much by then. People remember Roku as the Avatar first and a Firebender second, don't they?"

People remember Roku as the last Avatar anybody knew about.

"Things change. Anyway, the Avatar asked what each of the two was most afraid of. The moon said, 'That one day I shall leave and go too far to find my way back to him.' The king said, 'That one day I shall look up and see no way to remember her.'"

Idiots.

"…maybe. Or maybe your thinking is different when you know you're in love but don't know what to do about it. Maybe it shows you new things to fear. Maybe you have to learn new ways to be brave."

Maybe he shouldn't have been crazy enough to fall in love with a moon.

"Maybe he didn't have a choice. Whatever. The Avatar looked at the king and the moon, and he said that he could aid their suffering. But the price for this would be a heart."

What did he need a heart for? What would the Avatar do with it?

"What do you do with yours? But the lovers were shocked by the Avatar's words and refused to consider such a sacrifice at first. It was because the moon's heart was her anchor to the king's world, and the king's heart was his signal to the moon's world. If one were to vanish, their connection would be broken and they thought they'd be unable to reach each other.

"But as time passed, the king, being mortal, grew older and frailer; the moon feared his aging body would no longer be able to endure the pain of their separations. Yet still she couldn't stay with him and still he couldn't go with her. Finally, she went to the Avatar and implored him to protect them from the pain that would eventually befall them.

She was surrendering before the actual fight? The madman was in love with a coward, then. No wonder they were doomed.

"It's not cowardice to be ready for tragedy. And she wasn't scared for her own sake, after all. The moon said, 'Give us something that will be there when I am gone and something that will last beyond his end. I will give up my heart if you will give us something that will last forever.' Unfortunately, when the moon tried to take her heart out of her chest, her grief was so strong that the heart shattered in her hands. She began to weep, thinking all was lost."

How does anyone give up their own heart? That's impossible.

"It's a story; impossible things are easier in stories. I think. So, the moon was crying but the Avatar said, "Don't despair; love does not depend on distance or time. I will give you something more powerful than death or duty, something stronger than dreams or memory. I will give you hope."'

"The Avatar took the tiny pieces of the moon's heart and began his work. First, he raised a pillar of earth so tall it scraped the black sky. Standing on its top, he took the pieces and ignited them until each shard blazed with radiance. Then he froze each bright piece to preserve its brilliance. Finally, the Avatar summoned all the four winds and scattered the shining pieces across the night's surface until no dark corner was left without a point of light."

And?

"And that's why we have stars in the sky."

Stars.

"Yeah. Stars. What—why are you looking at me like that?"

Because that was one of the stupidest things I've ever heard. What was the point?

I don't 've been sulking all day and now you're sitting in the dark, brooding. Again. I thought a distraction would help. At least a little.

I don't need your pity. Or your silly stories.

"I know," Katara sighs, tired too. "But it's all I had to give."

The night continues, the ship keeps moving, and neither the prince nor the girl say anything else. Eventually, Katara sighs again and, bowing gracefully, leaves. Zuko is only vaguely aware of the teacup left behind, assuming its contents finished and forgotten. When he picks it up, however, he is surprised to find it full.

Inside, he sees the moon.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Believe it or not, Ripley, this segment was written long before the season one finale. The legend Katara tells is based on nothing in particular, but rather takes its cue from the general formula of folk tales that deal with magical brides and grooms.


	15. Arc II: drowning the moon: +act your age+

Zuko is fifteen years old the first time he gets well and truly drunk. Really drunk. Brilliantly drunk. _Ceremoniously_ drunk. It is a process that involves a harbor, a tavern, and memories of Uncle Iroh ordering one more round. The remaining details are blessedly hazy, though not enough so to stave off the suspicion that a duck may have been involved at some point in the evening.

Zuko is fifteen years and one day old when he wakes up with a monstrous headache, fuzzy teeth, and Katara's disapproving frown. Neither one of these seems particularly auspicious.

"Here," she thrusts a cup towards him. "Drink."

The cold tea, because it's _always_ tea, tastes so absolutely vile that it must be amazingly healthy. He downs the cup without complaint and starts to feel more optimistic about the possibility of being upright. Meanwhile, Katara moves softly, lighting candles, and watching him out of the corners of her unsettling, brilliant eyes. Zuko appreciates the quietness more than the tea.

Of course, he's not about to admit that sort of thing out loud.

"Do you think you could eat something?" she asks when he finally sits up.

He nods. "Yes." The nod travels downward, rolling his stomach. "No. Never."

"Oh, you'll be fine. Your uncle has already had a full breakfast and he outdrank you by seven cups." The girl's brows rise and quirk into what translates as amused censure. The gesture is damnably familiar. "Apparently you challenged him to a drinking contest after the third bottle. You lost sometime after the eighth, I think."

It certainly feels that way, Zuko reflects, while the bones of his skull try to slide out. The feeling explains his lack of affront at the pressing of a cool, wet cloth to his face and Katara muttering, "Must be a guy thing."

"Jealous you got left out?"

She leaves the cloth spread ungraciously over his face. "Why? I got to see a crew full of grown, mostly sane men have their common sense overthrown by a couple of jugs. Not to mention the musical portion of the evening. I learned some lovely new tunes for the next music night. Especially that ditty about how the monk's staff has a knob at one end… _very_ inspiring. Hmm, that reminds me; I'd better mend lieutenant Ji's uniform before the poor man starts worrying too badly about where his pants ran away to. Mind you, he won't be the only aching head pondering that sort of question; the dancing got a little rowdy after the fifth wine crate."

Zuko really, really hopes he was unconscious by that point. Unconscious _and_ fully dressed. The gleam in Katara's eye advises him not to ask. "How long before we're ready to set sail?"

"Depends on how long until someone finds the holding cell key."

"Key?"

"To unlock the helmsman."

"…Katara?"

"Yes, Prince Zuko?"

"Why is the helmsman locked in the holding cell?"

He doesn't need to see her shrug to know it's there. "Probably for the same reason Master Iroh insisted on telling the story about when you were seven and got your shoes melted onto a suit of armor. You know, the one they had to _carve_ you out of?"

Ah. Of course. Zuko wonders how many people he's going to have to throw overboard during the course of the coming week. The thought is a vaguely uplifting one.

"I will never touch another drop of alcohol as long as I live." Which, judging from the way he's feeling, won't be all that long anyway.

"Uh-huh." The cloth vanishes to reveal Katara looking at him with mild curiosity. "Well. How does it feel?"

"Like every organ in my body has been replaced with slime."

She rolls her eyes. Unladylike. Really, the girl is hopeless. "Being fifteen, silly. Do you feel different? Wiser? Stronger? Taller?"

"I feel like executing you for impertinence."

"So, no change?"

His head hurts. His mouth is dry. His face is damp and chilled despite the overbearing warmth of the room around him. Though docked, he can feel the ship rock softly on the water in an illusion of movement, of going and getting somewhere. He is fifteen and hungover and the scar he didn't have when he was fourteen a year ago is in the same place it was when he was fourteen a week ago.

Zuko closes his eyes.

"No change."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those lazy enough to spot it, this segment has a mild Terry Pratchett reference.


	16. Intermission: +blue-eyed behavior+

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And for something (not quite completely) different!

** Things Prince Zuko Prohibits Being Done, Said, or Thought About Ever Again in Order for Certain Individuals to Remain on the Ship **

 

1\. Bathing times will be decided according to each crew member's schedule, rank, and the ability to remember to _**lock the damn door when she's in there.**_

2\. No person on board has the authority to issue "permission slips" and any individual who presents one will have her ink supplies confiscated for a week.

3\. No gambling with any civilian(s) on board.

a. It's still gambling even if she gives back the winnings.

4\. Nobody is allowed to ask for the day off due to religious purposes, on the basis that "Master Iroh got up before breakfast; it's a miracle!"

5\. Nobody is allowed to shake _anything_ their mother gave them, while on duty. (Or off duty when I can see it.)

6\. Music Night is a privilege not a "rite of passage."

7\. Katara is forbidden to share ideas unless a chaperone is present. (Uncle Iroh doesn't count.)

8\. The proper response to an official order is not "Oh, you're just saying that to sound important."

9\. Taking an officer's, or a prince's, belongings without permission is theft, not "emergency acquisition for artistic purposes."

10\. Only one person on board is allowed to wear a dress while on duty. (She may not loan a dress to others, no matter what sort of bet was made and won/lost.)

11\. Any inquiry answered with "I've always wanted to try it" or "why not?" is a sign of prohibited activity; the miscreant in question is to be dragged out of wherever she wormed her way in and escorted to her room.

12\. The "she" of every "she is not allowed" commandment issued, applies to only one person on the ship and she is no longer allowed to pretend ignorance of this.

13\. No revolutions during dinner.

14\. Armored rhinos are not to be taken out for "walkies".

15\. Anything involving live squid and a flute is definitely a bad idea.

16\. A lap dance is not a valid form of currency, and certain crew members will stop exploiting the officers this way when bargaining at market. (I don't care if she thinks it's an "untapped economic resource".

17\. Katara does not have the medical authority to prescribe naps.

18\. It is better to beg forgiveness than to ask permission, no longer applies to any female individual shorter than five feet.

19\. Curiosity killed the cat and will get the girl locked in a trunk.

20\. A good idea can only be labeled so by someone sane and non-blue eyed.

* * *

** Things Katara Promises to Not Do, Say, or Think About Ever Again, in Order to Remain on the Ship (Instead of Being Shipped Back to the Fire Nation Like a Sack of Cabbages.)  **

 

1\. Zuko is a prince, not a princess.

2\. "You'd have to be mad to try it" is not permission for me to try it.

3\. My sense of humor is not a medical condition. (Neither is Zuko's lack of it.)

4\. I will not gamble with the crew.  
a. It's still gambling even if I know I'll win.

5\. I will not forge documentation granting me military rank. (Ditto for the cat and the eel.)

6\. Serving tea to rhinos is a waste, not philanthropy.

7\. I will not handle Zuko's sword; I will keep my hands off his equipment.  
a. I will not use the expression "handle Zuko's sword" in public or private. Ditto for "his equipment."

8\. "How many damn awful travel songs do you know?" is not a request.

9\. I may not let the cat take responsibility for any of my actions.

10\. Anything involving live squid and a flute is probably a bad idea.

11\. Lt. Ji's bunk is not for bouncing.

12\. I will not write any more ballads about the (in)famous "Goat in the Prince's Bed" incident.

13\. I will not hold funerals for a rat. (Even if the rat in question did "serve the ship to best of its nature and ability".)

14\. Master Iroh's being the Dragon of the West does not make Zuko, the Salamander of the West, Two Doors Down and Three Inches Up.

15\. I will not introduce myself at port as the ship mascot.

16\. I will not declare Agni Kai challenges on the cat's behalf.

17\. I will not accept piggyback rides from anyone below the rank of lieutenant.

18\. Whatever happens on Music Night, doesn't get discussed outside of Music Night.

19\. I will not adopt anything scheduled to be on the menu. That includes eels, shrimp, carp, and roots.

20\. I will not ask any Firebender on duty to play Hot Potato. (No matter how much I want a snack.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With many apologies to the infamous Skippy.


	17. Arc II: drowning the moon: +reflections+

Suddenly, she is fourteen.

At fourteen, a Fire Nation girl is not a child, but a woman. She puts away her dolls, readying her hands for duty, for marriage, for her future. She abandons studies of history and arithmetic to practice managing a household and raising a family. She will bow before the tablet of her ancestors, asking forgiveness for her inborn weaknesses and begging guidance. She will accept a red undertunic to wear beneath her childish robes before exchanging the garments for darker mature layers and longer sleeves. She will uncoil the braid crowning her temples and pin up her long black hair.

At fourteen, Katara looks nothing like a Fire Nation girl. She wears loose, full trousers tucked into practical high boots, not unlike those of a soldier. Her tunics and vests are high collared, boyish if not for the long, soft sleeves and vines of flowers embroidered at the hem. She runs across the deck of a ship without faltering, climbs fast, reads maps easily, and keeps a small dagger hidden in her left boot. She listens and jokes and sings with men thirty years her senior, and plays Pai Sho with sly success. She knows how to fix a net, hone a blade, skin any animal smaller than her arm, tourniquet a wound, and make a prince laugh. Her stitches are invisible and present on the back, or sleeve, or knee, or neckline of every crewman.

Yet...

Iroh finds himself occasionally startled by the blooming prettiness of her face. She is stubborn, generous, polite, forthright, and she is growing more into her skin with every day. She is a clever girl, an honorable girl, a good girl, but Iroh doesn't know what to do with her.

Because she loves Zuko.

It is a young, not-callused love; Iroh doubts Katara has any conscious awareness of it. It is a feeling based on friendship, loyalty and compassion, relying not on romance but proximity and recognition. Impossible to notice for being what it is, unless one knows how and where to look, but Iroh knows. They have, after all, been under his watch for a very long time. And Iroh is not so old as to forget what it is to be young, and lonely. He knows enough to recognize the signs: the fearless smile, the fond exasperation, the brightened eyes. In Katara's room there is a sleeping robe too big for a girl, fourteen or otherwise; on its border is a slowly growing design of scales. A dragon and a fish, together. The long body and little tails are painstakingly crafted, each line a testimony of care and attention. The great beast's head is not yet begun, but Iroh knows its eyes will be a rich, tawny gold.

She is fourteen, Iroh tells himself. It will change. For now, let things be as they are.

After dinner, Iroh takes a brocaded pouch and gives it to the girl. Katara's face is curious, then startled, then delighted. Reverently, she turns over one hairpin and then the other, fingering the ornaments with shy wonder. Gold and pearl, the pin's length is simple in design, but elegant. Perhaps too simple and too elegant for a girl still young enough to appreciate glitter without substance, but Iroh doesn't regret his choice. The pearls gleam like the skin of the moon. Curling her fingers around the gift, she bows with gratitude, and then, because no amount of propriety will keep Katara from being Katara, she throws both arms around Iroh's middle in a joyful hug.

It is at this point that Zuko leaves the room without a word. The pleasure on Katara's face momentarily dims. But she doesn't give Iroh a chance to step and comfort, smiling again within seconds and undoing the simple braid of her hair. Loose, Iroh is surprised—not at the length of the cascade but at the wealth of it, how comfortably the firelight lingers in the waves. He's almost sorry to see her start twisting the mass into order, trying to fashion an elegant knot to secure upward, as is proper. It is a tricky first time effort without a mirror to guide the work, but none are present. Like himself, Katara keeps nothing of the sort around her. The unspoken reason for this returns suddenly, his face determined, startling them both.

Here, the boy says, thrusting a tightly wrapped silken square at her. Katara takes it instinctively and the unfinished chignon tumbles down over her shoulders. Face openly puzzled, she unwraps the silk. For a moment, she holds a spotless piece of the sun in her hands. But then the angle changes and again Iroh thinks of the moon. Its silver is shining, exquisitely engraved and molded around a disk of polished bronze reflecting spots of golden light onto Katara's cheek. The mirror is obviously the work of a master; Iroh wonders where, or more specifically, _when_ , his nephew acquired it. Zuko hates shopping, and is steadfastly disapproving of impractical objects, no matter how aesthetically pleasing. Katara's face and the rigid set of Zuko's shoulders tell Iroh there is a message in the gift whose meaning transcends the occasion.

Katara does not hug Zuko. Clasping the gift to her chest, brown hands crossed over the silver, she bows low. The depth of it holds enough respect to satisfy a king but it is her honesty that makes the gesture profound, elevating it into pure grace. From her position she cannot see the gratefulness on Zuko's face; Iroh can. He does not doubt both expressions are sincere.

When she rises and looks at the gift again, eyes dancing, the formality of the moment softens into sweetness. She spins with girlish zeal, irresistible, hair swinging like wings around her. Iroh cannot help smiling at the picture she makes. Zuko rolls his eyes, an un-princely action Iroh hasn't seen him do in nearly two years, and tells her to quit being foolish.

You're like a child, he admonishes her. The reprimand does nothing to extinguish the shine of her happiness.

Am not, she responds with unconscious, and spellbinding, charm. Fourteen, Iroh thinks with a dull pang of memory, is young enough to be innocently and blamelessly unaware of the power of your instinctive actions.

Zuko scowls (it has no bite) and takes the mirror from her hands. Katara's mild look of affront dissipates when he carefully raises the disk to the level of her face. Once again, she gathers her hair and arranges it into the correct upsweep. Turning her head a bit to the side, eyes never leaving the reflection between Zuko's hands (and thus never actually looking away from Zuko,) Katara inserts the hairpins with elaborate care. Finished, she lowers her hands, tilting her head experimentally to and fro, and smiles.

She asks, what do you think?

It's you, Zuko says.

Katara smiles again, taking the words as a compliment and not a confession. Iroh looks at the fourteen-year-old girl with gold in her hair and the sixteen-year-old boy with silver in his hands, and sees nothing that wasn't there before.

But then Iroh is old enough to know that love is invisible.


	18. Arc II: drowning the moon: +eye of the storm+

It's too late to turn back.

Overhead, the sky hardens without warning, dense with the menace, but they are too far out and neither the ship nor its occupants have any choice except enduring. The thickening air smells tart, yet vaguely sweet, and it is glaringly, bitterly cold. Orders are barked and obeyed. As the swells build, every man's hand is busy with preparing the ship for danger. They ready for the worst.

They get it.

The sea which carried them obediently before is now a beast eager to devour. Dark waters paw the ship and gales scour the deck, everything thrown violently off-kilter into chaos. The temptation to panic is inevitable. Zuko braces himself as another onslaught of rain and wind bludgeons him, unafraid. Just cold and very, very wet.

A flicker of color, too bright to belong to any sensible crewmember, catches his eye and suddenly there is room for fear among the cold and wet, after all.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he shouts at Katara when he reaches her. "Get down below! _**Now**_!"

She stares at him, not backing down. Hair plastered to her skull, skin glistening, clothes dark with water, Katara looks small and fierce. But he can't help noting the peonies embroidered on her jacket.

"I can help," she shouts back, the storm around them forbidding anything resembling polite speaking volume.

"I'm _ordering_ you to-"

The shout goes unfinished; a wave crashes down and drags Zuko across deck, almost to the edge. Mouth full of salt (blood or brine, it's hard to tell) he spends a moment laying flat, spreading his weight, in order be a harder target to snag, then starts to stand. Halfway to his feet, Zuko sees a second column of water rise. There is no time to run, nothing to grab or brace against, and his fire will not be enough to stop it. Above the chaos of the storm, and the waterlogged din in his ears, Zuko thinks he hears his uncle cry warning. He thinks, dimly, that he hears another voice shout as well.

The wave begins to fall.

But not on him. Instead, the liquid pillar bucks and sways, _bends_ , throwing its deadly weight against the hull rather than across deck. When Zuko remembers to breathe, he stands and turns to see Katara in a classic half-stance, one knee bent forward and one leg stretched back, arms extended forward with both palms raised. Behind her, Iroh and two crewmembers stare with stunned wonder. But there is no time for shock or gratitude; the ship shudders and Katara falls to her knees. Zuko hauls her up.

"I'm not leaving," she starts.

"We need to reach the ice; it's dangerous but it will buffer the gale." He doesn't release the hold on her arms, steadying her when another jolt threatens to pitch the girl off her feet. "I need you to ward off the waves, at least a little bit. Can you do it?"

Eyes wide, she nods. "I can try. Most of them are too big but I can maybe lessen the impact or steer them away enough to prevent toppling us completely." Her shoulders pull back, resolute. "I can do it, Prince Zuko."

With the noise and blast around them, Zuko has to lean in close to be heard. Too close. When he speaks, the heat of his mouth reaches her and even now, among the overwhelming turmoil and danger, Zuko is distinctly aware of being _felt_.

"I don't want you here," he says. It is not an insult.

Katara smiles. The warmth of it is as incongruous and insane as the yellow flowers on her sleeve. "Trust me."

What choice does he have?

Because she has absorbed the same lessons on the importance of being "rooted" as he, Katara's mission requires balance; because the ship has no stability to spare, Zuko becomes her anchor. He stays close while the waves leap, alert for any blow that may hurl her overboard. Absorbed in her task, Katara is blind to how close and how often she comes to the edge; Zuko keeps himself ready to pull her back. Several times, he does this, closing hard fingers around her wrist or, in one particularly brutal quake, looping an arm around her waist and dragging. Every time he touches her, Zuko feels the tremors running between Katara's muscles and skin. She is not ready for this; the meager amount of practice Katara's managed secretively in the past two years combines with the scant amount of instruction from years before to create a weak supply of ability. Ironically, she has spent almost as much effort concealing her abilities, as Zuko has spent training his. A wall of brine pummels them and Zuko decides things will change. The secret's out, the crew will learn to _deal_ even if he has to fricassee hides to make it happen, and it's going to be different. Starting tomorrow, he swears, we'll train every day. Together. She'll learn to move ships by the end of the month.

Out loud he says, "Steady." Katara doesn't nod, doesn't look at him, but raises her arms with determination and a swell of seawater staggers backward. Another replaces it. And another. And another.

Time turns to water. There are no waves—just one wave, always one wave, one unvarying obstacle to overcome. There can only be one wave because to acknowledge the existence of more will mean succumbing to them. Nothing exists outside this moment. Only he and her and water.

Hours of eternity later, they reach the ice, giants of white shining against the murderous horizon. The helmsman shouts "land", Iroh shouts orders, Katara's arms fall. Exhausted, drained to the last, she slumps against Zuko, mouthing something he can't hear. He puts a hand on her shoulder and she looks up. A bedraggled lock of hair lies like a bandage across her forehead. Zuko raises his hand to brush it away.

Iroh shouts.

There is a brief infinite instant when all Zuko sees is the horror reflecting in Katara's eyes and then she _shoves_. Small brown hands, fatigued and familiar, push against his chest and send him stumbling away. (He knows she's stronger than she looks.) From his new position, Zuko has an excellent view of the icy avalanche cascading down on them—no.

_**Katara**_.

Rushing forward, back to where he should be, where he _promised_ to be, back to her, Zuko knows he won't reach her in time. Zuko runs anyway. For one desperate, frozen moment, he almost believes he'll make it. He almost does.

The last thing he sees is the hopelessness in her eyes.

* * *

All is quiet when he wakes up.

Zuko lies still, breathing and staring at patterns of shadows dance on the ceiling. There is an unclear, hard ache in his right side, a vaguely familiar discomfort. The ice must've damaged a rib, he realizes numbly. Maybe it's broken. Maybe it's not. Zuko doesn't care.

Turning his head, he sees his uncle sitting by the bed. A kettle and cup rest on a small table beside the man. The cup has a blue pattern of bamboo trees on it; he recognizes it. A mad, fierce hope leaps up in Zuko, squeezing his heart like hot iron. He opens his mouth to say her name.

A flicker of color (too bright) catches his eye.

The yellow peonies are as ridiculously cheerful as ever, seeming to grow more so each time Zuko sees them. The torn patch of material looks bright and pathetic in Iroh's lap. His uncle turns towards him, sorrow and sympathy brimming in his gaze, and Zuko turns away, not bothering to spare his injured side.

It hurts.


	19. Arc II: drowning the moon: +remnants+

It's the little things that hurt the most.

The scent of lemon in the sheets, its faint presence of comfort and care lessening. Red thread on a black sleeve ("I ran out of black, can you _believe_ it?) A slim brush found tucked into a history scroll ("Because I like to remember which era I left off at.") Patches of silk tape on the map ("Just keeping track of where's the what.") The aftertaste of saffron ("Don't be so picky; it's good for you".)

"It will pass," Uncle Iroh tells him.

Zuko doesn't look up from the teacup in his hands. There's nothing truly unusual about the object, aside from the odd color of the bamboo shoots painted on it. It used to have a matching twin, equally blue and odd, but it broke two years ago. The cup in front of him now was brought in after he threw the first against the wall, angry, hurt, and wanting her to run. Instead, she'd shouted back, warning him not to break the second because it was her favorite. In the end, no matter how strongly he raged, Katara had not left him.

"When will it pass?" Zuko asks Iroh. Another week? Month? Seven years?

The elder shifts creakily, a silent reference to old bones and cold nights. And the fact that now there is no gentle brown hand to help ward off the growing chill with hot tonics or leafy brews.

"She would not wish to see you this way, Prince Zuko."

No, Zuko agrees, she wouldn't. She would frown and joke, and cajole, and finish stitching fish on the collar, and raise her voice to sing or scold, and bite her lip, and quirk her brows, and tap her brush against her cheek, and win two games out of three, and say tomorrow was on its way so, come on, Zuko, let's go. Trust me.

But Katara is gone and a thousand things remain unsaid.


	20. Intermission: +median+

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set during Arc II, drowning the moon, a.k.a. "the ship years."

**#01 – Ring**   
_what goes around_

Katara stands on the dock's edge, a stone's throw from the ship due to be their address, and thinks of how the line of every journey, new and past, can be bent into a circle.

**#02 – Hero**   
_the right to bleed_

"He is not a traitor," are strange words from a strange little girl, but still it's the soldier, not the child, who looks away first.

**#03 – Memory**   
_history, her story_

The first few weeks are full of rough, painful awakenings; Zuko briefly not remembering where he is, Katara unable to forget.

**#04 – Box**   
_geometry, the study of space_

Her new room is small and narrow, each wall the size of the other; Zuko stares incredulously when he finds her bouncing on the mattress, laughing and free.

**#05 – Run**   
_going back to basics_

It takes the prince a while to master walking across the ship's constantly tilting floor; Katara, however, seems to acquire her sea legs between her first and second step.

**#06 – Hurricane**   
_never underestimate a butterfly_

The first fight takes them all by surprise, the crew shocked at first not so much by clash as by the fact that it is happening; yet even Iroh is startled by level of intensity igniting the pair's faces.

**#07 – Wings**   
_hope is the thing with feathers_

The ship slices through the sky's reflection, cleaving the waves like a bird parts air; Katara would point it out to Zuko, if she believed he'd look.

**#08 – Cold**   
_if you got the poison, I've got the remedy_

"You're going to catch a cold" is a ridiculous way to admonish a Firebender standing alone against the sea wind, but it's not his physical wellbeing she's worried about.

**#09 – Red**   
_what good is spilling blood, it will not grow a thing_

He called it a stain, a ruin, a wound; she called it a mark, an emblem, a scar.

**#10 – Drink**   
_inside is the only way out_

Used to the taste, Katara downs the sleeping draught in one long swallow with nothing in her face to tell Zuko whether she finds the mixture bitter or cloying.

**#11 – Midnight**   
_cinderella said to snow white, how does love get so off course_

And then there are times when they climb to the topmost roof of the ship, not the highest point but the most out of reach, and she sits with her legs dangling and he lies on his back, and they speak about anything except how and where they are, and life is okay.

**#12 – Temptation**   
_you're dangerous because you don't know what you want_

After the eleventh failed explanation of why, Zuko began the tradition of simply forbidding Katara to venture more than ten feet from port unescorted; thought the order was faithfully, and predictably, ignored, at least they no longer spent an hour beforehand debating it.

**#13 – View**   
_objectives in the mirror are closer than they appear_

The problem with reflections, Katara thinks when the prince locks himself away to meditate, is that they can only show what is behind you.

**#14 – Music**   
_waltz to the beat of your own heart_

Katara had two choices; she could fear the soldiers around her, and spend the evening hiding, or she could accept them, and dance.

**#15 – Silk**   
_so forget the inner me, observe the outer_

Katara's wardrobe grows simpler and plainer until finally she attends breakfast dressed as practically and humbly as any soldier; the lack of silk and ribbons goes ignored by the crew but not by Zuko, which should be flattering but isn't.

**#16 – Cover**   
_conspiracy theories_

Nobody onboard will outright _lie_ to the prince, but many are willing to bend the truth when the occasion requests it (yes, sir, it was like that we got here and no, sir, I haven't seen her today.)

**#17 – Promise**   
_there's a time to play a king and a time to be the thief_

If Zuko's word is his bond, then Katara's silence is her testimony.

**#18 – Dream**   
_I'm stronger than the monster beneath your bed_

"I don't want to talk about it," is the only thing one has to say to the other to guarantee sympathy in the form of understanding, kindness in the form of company, and love in the form of an extra dollop of honey stirred into the tea.

**#19 – Candle**   
_little altars everywhere_

For meditation Zuko requires candles and quiet, and the strength to tame his own frustrations; Katara's tools, on the other hand, consist of anything from a black sky over dark water, or thick ink on a smooth page, or red tea in a pale cup—anything except shadows and heat.

**#20 – Talent**   
_she seems to have an invisible touch_

Katara's skill at antagonizing the prince was rivaled only by her ability to soothe him.

**#21 – Silence**   
_this is the story of a girl_

When Katara tells stories, Zuko is absorbed not by her words, but the sweep of her hands, the slant of her gaze, and the candor of her smile, because when Katara tells stories, Zuko listens with his eyes open.

**#22 – Journey**   
_the mother and the matador, the mystic: each were here before_

The places they visit are diverse, some urban, some in ruin, some sacred to nobody except the very old, but all are alike in not housing who they seek.

**#23 – Fire**   
_life is not tried, it is merely survived_

In the morning, Katara doesn't recognize the scratch on Zuko's cheek—just like she didn't recognize him during the night when her terror drew it there.

**#24 – Strength**   
_subtract out the impact and the fall is all you get_

They're friends, _best_ friends, so of course she _likes_ him—but they're _friends_ , best friends, so of course she doesn't like him like _that_.

**#25 – Mask**   
_I'm the color me happy girl, miss live and let live_

She walks through green clothed crowds, wearing blue leathers, dark shoes, and a red, red thread around her heart.

**#26 – Ice**   
_tread carefully lest you sink beneath_

"Upset about something?" Zuko asks, breaking the icy skin atop his soup with more patience than her outburst (undoubtedly) deserves.

**#27 – Fall**   
_autumn is the season of memory_

Zuko tries to measure his time at sea first by days, then weeks, then seasons, and then, finally, by how many notebooks Katara has managed to fill.

**#28 – Forgotten**   
_forgot to remember to forget_

"Because if I'm going to hate anyone," Katara whispers, eyes never leaving Captain Zhao's profile across the shipyard, "he's the best ogre for the job."

**#29 – Dance**   
_take the lead_

One moment he's winning (again), next she's got an arm across his shoulders, their faces close enough to share breath; Zuko hesitates and Katara plants a knee into his stomach, triumphant.

**#30 – Body**   
_I don't mind looking up to you as long as there's something to see there_

He hits a sudden growth spurt at fifteen, stretching him another inch above her head; Katara spends a happy week teasing about the possibility of her getting whiplash if he keeps growing that fast.

**#31 – Sacred**   
_one man's church is another man's cemetery_

In its current state the temple is little more than three and a half walls, a roof on the floor, and vintage dust in which Katara traces characters with her finger: _house, fire, wish, end, air._

**#32 – Farewells**   
_hello, stranger_

Fourteen, she studies the girl in the mirror, touching the lips, the hair, the dip of her chin, the hollow of her throat; one by one, Katara catalogues the changes her mother will never see.

**#33 – World**   
_where are we going from here?_

His world is his duty, his mission, his honor; her world is her charity, her daring, her hope.

**#34 – Formal**   
_cats may look at kings_

Out loud and in public, he is never simply _Zuko_ because nothing about their friendship is simple—only true.

**#35 – Fever**   
_you've got it, I want it_

Fire Nation poets speak of envy as biting, frigid, cold, but when Katara watches the prince practice and learn, she feels it burn.

**#36 – Laugh**   
_there's a piece that's hard to reach_

"Did you just try to tickle me…through armor?"

**#37 – Lies**   
_honor among thieves and children_

Zuko trusts Katara to disobey, distract, disregard, defy, dispute—but never deny him the truth.

**#38 – Forever**   
_would you rather follow a map or a clock?_

"What if he _is_ dead—where will we go then?"

**#39 – Overwhelmed**   
_you've already won me over in spite of me_

Zuko plops down in the sand, stunned and blinking salt water out of his eyes, tipped further off balance by the arms around his neck and _I did it, Prince Zuko, did you see—I finally did it!_

**#40 – Whisper**   
_haptics_

They touch more and less than they did as children: more caringly, more carefully, but less casually; the pressure on his arm and the warmth around her wrist have a new undertone, its power unfamiliar.

**#41 – Wait**   
_standing outside the fire_

Sometimes Katara looks at Zuko and worries about what she sees: all wick and no wax, a figure ready to burn away.

**#42 – Talk**   
_foreign you, foreign me_

Katara's speech is frequently colored by the city accent Zuko was born to and she was taught; to him it is a mantle, for her, a veil.

**#43 – Search**   
_don't worry about catching me; worry about keeping up_

"Got you," Katara exclaims triumphantly, wiggling a bit further inside the air duct to seize the ship cat and pull the stupid critter out—just as a hand closes around her ankle, its owner thinking the same about _his_ target.

**#44 – Hope**   
_in between you hope and pray the scars don't show._

Their situations are alike, not identical; the difference between an exile and a refugee, after all, is the difference between having a future and having hope.

**#45 – Eclipse**   
_here comes the summer son_

Zuko sometimes dreams of golden fields, warm light, his mother's scent, his father's care; at breakfast, Katara ask him what's wrong, her hand half-raised to touch the shadows under his eyes.

**#46 – Gravity**   
_the laws of attraction defy the rules of habit_

To him Katara looks the same to him as she always has, a little short, a little thin, a _lot_ of blue—and then one day she laughs in the sunlight and suddenly it's a little different, a little strange, a lot like something he wants.

**#47 – Highway**   
_when life goes to hell, keep walking_

Steadily, their course turns increasingly southern until the wind carries an aching chill, foreign to all except one.

**#48 – Unknown**   
_wake up scared, wake up strange, wake up wondering if anything is ever gonna change_

The hush between them grows deeper, while the water beneath grows colder; Zuko's closest companion is abruptly distant and Katara's stanch protector is keenly helpless, neither knowing how to start talking about what's coming.

**#49 – Lock**   
_the trick is to keep breathing_

The sodden lock of hair lies like a bandage, or seaweed, or ink, across her forehead (he'll remember this, afterwards, when he is awake and alone, with a piece of torn cloth in his lap and his heart a blister.)

**#50 – Breathe**   
_the weight of the invisible_

Her body sinks, her chest locks, everything _**hurts**_ —but still there's a moment, one single, flaming moment, when the fear in her lungs is overshadowed by the shape of his name in her throat.


	21. Arc III: a drop in the ocean: +discovery+

The boy looks like Katara.

It's an unsettling similarity—the war paint, the bared teeth, the club and the cropped hair paired with blue eyes, brown skin, rounded face, wood-thick hair—but it doesn't prevent Zuko from kicking him face first into the snow. The kick is precise, controlled, but fueled by more force than necessary; Zuko is not feeling gentle. Actually, Zuko is trying very, very hard not to feel anything.

He finishes walking down the platform. The tribe watches him with fear in their blue eyes. Dimly, Zuko notes that they're women and children, no men, no warriors, and steels his mind against caring; he will not offer reassurance to placate their dread. His uncle would, he knows, but Iroh remains behind in the ship at Zuko's request.

Because facing these people is something Zuko must do alone. The decision to return has been living in him, mute, for over two months, surfacing only when they finally began (again) to sail south. Two months is enough to heal broken ribs. Two months is enough to repair a storm-damaged ship. But it's nowhere near close enough to kill the taste of blood and salt in his mouth or the memory of her laughter.

Two months, Zuko thinks, surveying the blue-eyed women and the dark-skinned children, is not enough for _**this**_.

No matter. He is here. He has a mission.

"I'm looking for the Avatar." Blank gazes peer at him. A wrinkled woman, the oldest in the crowd, is the only one to openly meet his glare; her eyes are inscrutable. "If you have any information on his whereabouts, past or present, talk. The sooner you do so, the sooner we leave."

Unsurprisingly, it is the hag who answers. "There is nothing for you here, Firebender. Leave now."

He wants to. Oh, how he wants to. He wants to get back aboard his ship and flee the barren tundra and its unforgiving wind, its suffocating ice, the long planes of sheer damn freezing nothing. He wants to go away and never think about this place again, never see it on a map, never have to remember the life-leeching suck of the artic air or hear a casual mention of its existence in the world. He hates every snowflake in sight.

Because there is nothing for him here except that which he must do: Zuko must pressure and demand, yell and blaze, until they lay their stories at his feet. He must become the warning, the nightmare in armor, a copy of what Katara feared and loathed, a monster. This is his current role, the ugly method by which he may reclaim his life, and it is all there is. The knowledge simmers to a boil inside him, spilling over and out in a gush of fire. Children shriek, their mothers pulling them close, huddling. One of them, a gap toothed girl with coiled braids on either side of her head, trips running away and bursts into tears. She stares at Zuko with wet, frightened eyes the color of diluted ink.

The fire vanishes; Zuko digs his nails out of his palms (the pain is insignificant) and starts to turn around. Enough is enough.

Behind him, he hears a yell, and reflex overrides sorrow to shift Zuko gracefully out of harm's way. The boy again, Zuko thinks. _Moron_. A hard kick sends the brat flying, but the peasant rolls to his feet with surprising, if unimpressive, speed and pulls out a boomerang to throw; Zuko tilts his neck a paltry fraction to the side and the crude weapon spins uselessly past. Clumsy backwater peasant couldn't even aim proper— _ **hey**_!

Helmet askew, and ears ringing from the unexpected blow, Zuko feels the last fragile tethers over his temper (and all it covers) snap with a savage, irrational surge of heat. Zuko raises a closed fist towards the boy and thinks of fire.

A snowball hits Zuko's cheek.

Seething, he wipes the stinging slush out of his eye (his _bad_ eye) and spins around, vaguely noticing the new wave of fear crashing through the peasant boy's face. Yet the fear is not directed at Zuko but at…

…at…

_…oh, spirits above and below…_

Zuko doesn't believe in miracles. Katara did. Throughout the course of their childhood, she was constantly ferreting impossible happenings, reading and memorizing every tale of wonder, magic, or supernatural description that floated within reach. Zuko was never sure where she got them all or, worse, why she insisted on sharing them with him despite his stolid refusal to acknowledge any interest in the nonsense. They're not real, he'd explain with elaborate, but quickly dwindling, patience. It's all just tricks and ignorance. Things like that don't happen, he told her; she remained unfazed.

Just because you've never seen something, she'd spit back, doesn't mean it can't, or won't, ever happen. Wait and see. One day something absolutely totally amazing will happen right in front of you, Prince Zuko, and you'll believe. You _will_.

He does.

Because here he is, sixteen and cynical and cold and exhausted and more amazed than he's ever been in his life, and there she is, fourteen and blue-eyed and surprised and alive. Alive. She's alive.

"Katara?" It comes out in a whisper, squeezing out between hope and disbelief.

She nods, unsmiling. Bewildered, Zuko starts to take a step forward to—what? Reach for her? Touch her? Make sure this is real and not another dream readying to become a nightmare?

"Katara!" The boy. "Get away from him! Don't come near her, you Fire Nation bastard. I'll kill you if you touch her!"

Zuko considers how hard, and far, he'll have to punt the fool to silence him. And why the peasant's snarls make Katara flinch. But she doesn't glance in the idiot's direction when she says, "Shut up, Sokka."

She says to Zuko, "He's not here."

Who? "Who?"

"The Avatar. He's not here."

…right. The Avatar. Zuko forces himself to remember the shape of the world around them, the mission, the soldiers at his side and the tribe at her back, the ship. The vertigo of the moment increases when Katara leans around him and waves a gloved hand at the Firebenders. One of them shakily waves back.

Maybe this isn't a dream, after all. Maybe he's simply gone mad.

But then she closes the distance between them, puts a snow-dusted hand on his arm (he remembers the snowball), and asks, "Zuko?" and he doesn't care about being mad or asleep or anything outside of this moment.

"You were right," he says. "About miracles."

Something in her eyes softens, almost sad, but before he can catch its meaning, Katara turns away.

"Give me a moment to say goodbye," she tells him.

He waits. It doesn't take long. The old woman from before clasps Katara's face between her crooked hands, pulling the girl close to kiss both cheeks. In return, Katara hugs her tightly, face momentarily lost in the furry collar of the elder's parka. Others also crowd around the girl, each bestowing a loving touch. The little girl with the tooth gap begins to cry again. Katara kneels, removing her gloves, and smoothes the child's tears away with naked hands. Zuko watches it all without shying.

They love her. Of course. How could they not? She is one of them, one of their blue-eyed, dusky-skinned own, and she is Katara. The last part especially makes her absurdly maddeningly easy to love; two months is enough for the densest fool to realize this.

The boy, Sokka, does not bid goodbye with a soft touch or kiss. He shouts, waving his arms and glares murder at Zuko. Outwardly, Zuko does not respond. Inside, he wonders at the strength of the boy's reaction, the nature and cause of its motivation, and how many punches it would take to pound the barbarian's head three feet deep into the snow. Katara buries her face in the boy's shoulder, and Zuko sees the youth's anger crumble into helplessness. They wrap their arms around each other, a matching pair, sharing whispers too soft to overhear. Zuko tastes a thread of salt in his mouth and realizes he is biting his cheek.

"Take care of Aang," he hears Katara say as she finally separates from the tribesman. "Be careful."

"You too. Don't—" Another sidelong glare at Zuko. "Don't try anything dangerous, Katara."

She shakes her head. "I'll be fine, Sokka. Trust me."

When she returns to Zuko's side, Katara simply says, "Let's go."

He nods and leads them back into the ship. The position prevents him from knowing whether she does or does not look back.


	22. Arc III: a drop in the ocean: +development+

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This remains the most plagiarized section of the fic to date. Cheers!

"Promise me you won't hurt them."

This is the first thing she says to him when they're alone. Zuko stares at her, standing across his room when she'd usually be sitting close, holding herself still with a firm grip on either elbow, and tries to figure who he's looking at. Because Katara, his Katara, would never ask him this.

"I have no reason to hurt them," he says and sees her flinch. Damn. "I mean— why would you think I'd do such a thing? Against women and children?"

Guiltily, he remembers the fear on the nut-brown faces, but pushes the thought aside; that was necessary and only for intimidation purposes. She should know this. Has he become like the image of the monsters in her nightmares? Something within him, Zuko knows, would not survive the transformation. After a moment, Katara nods and Zuko feels a fist unclench inside him; he recognizes the relaxed swell of her lip as understanding.

"I don't think you would—I know you wouldn't." She digs her fingers into her elbows. "But I need to hear you say it."

_Because it is your tribe, your people. Because in their eyes I am the enemy._ "I promise."

"Thank you," Katara says quietly.

Who is she, this stranger before him? Zuko doesn't recognize her. The shape is different, outlined and tapered by the foreign cut of the unfamiliar blue clothes, the slim long tunic and tight sleeves. Her face has new dimensions in it, framed by the twin thin locks of dark hair and the pull of the thick braid down her back. She is taller, thinner, darker, older, shorter, harder— _something_.

Something is different now.

Something has changed.

"Did you find people you knew—know—your family?" Zuko asks, awkward. "You were young when you left—were taken—when…"

She turns away partly, becoming an indecipherable profile against the sheet of candlelight on his wall. Her skin is like bronze. Perhaps silence was a safer position.

"I found my grandmother. Oh, and Sokka, of course."

Of course. "Sokka?"

"My brother." The crescent tip of a smile. "Sokka. He's the oldest boy left in the tribe; everybody older left two years ago to help—to fight. My father was among them. The rest…." The smile evaporates; she shrugs. "There were less people than I remember. But, well, kids are never good at keeping track; my memories were probably shoddy to begin with."

Zuko has seen her memorize a dynasty worth of titles in a week; Katara's memory has never been anything less proficient. Why the effort to pretend otherwise now? _Talk to me_ , he thinks. Pleads. _Show what you're trying to hide. I'm here; trust me._

"And Aang?" The name has a familiar flavor. "Another brother?"

"No." A guarded look veils her gaze, warning him about asking the wrong question. "A friend. A very young, very kind friend."

Zuko remembers the score of children huddling back from him. He asks, "Were you treated well? They welcomed you?"

"They were kind." Again the smile, but there is sadness in it. "They did everything they could for me, really. Fed me, clothed me, healed my wounds—it was amazing enough that Sokka found me when he did but I'd never have survived without the tribe's care."

Zuko doesn't want to hear about _that_. He doesn't want to picture her bleeding and weak, shivering or, worse, fatally still. Images of that ilk have been the fodder of his nightmares for over two months; he does not need to hear his imaginings be confirmed. But he looks at her, alive and whole, and finds the courage to ask, "How bad was it?"

"Frostbite was the bulk of it." Unlocking her arms, Katara studies the surface of one smooth palm. "My limbs were like wax. Lifeless. There was fever, too; it took a week before I was well enough to understand where I was. Afterwards…" She lowers her hand; Zuko watches its fingers curl loosely against her side and fight the urge to reach out and touch. "Gran-Gran said it was the fastest healing she'd ever seen in anybody. I don't know, maybe it's a Waterbender thing, but…" She tightens her lips, barring off words.

Zuko knows this expression, too. "But…what's wrong?"

"Nothing." He knows this stubbornness, too.

"Katara."

"It's _nothing_." Despite the sharpness of the word, it is her face that bears the hurt. "Nothing that matters at this point. Let it go."

He can't. Not even to save himself, could Zuko let go of…this. "Do you want to go back?"

The shock on her face is plain, naked, freezing her eyes and mouth. It transforms her face into that of a child, vulnerable, a face Zuko remembers studying often during his younger years. Of all the mysteries collected in Uncle Iroh's house, the curios and the stories, and the dreams born of them, of all the strange examples of the unknown Zuko has encountered on land and sea, Katara remains the most baffling.

"I can't," she says. "I can't—couldn't—go back. I don't belong there, not now. There isn't any place for me." Suddenly agitated, she turns back towards him. Emotions are rolling a storm across her face. "Nothing's like it was before. Everything's changed, been changed; it's different and I'm the only one who sees it like that because everyone else was part of the change. And you know what the worst part is, Zuko?"

_Zuko_. No title, no hesitation. When was the last time he heard his name released so freely and yet without rancor or aversion? He hears new tones in her pronunciation of it. But the change has nothing to do with sound, of course.

"I recognized everything. _Everything_. I recognized the lacings on the tent flap, the etching on the lamp pot, the bone handle of the knife during dinner." Momentarily a hand flies to her throat, overshadowing a stony glint of blue, and the fiercer blue of her eyes demands his full attention. "I recognized the smell of stewed prunes, the glossy feel of salve, the snowball games, the bedtime songs. I recognized how it all _worked_ , how they do things. How they live…"

But it wasn't the same, was it, Katara? Beneath the familiar was a world of unknown information and even though you knew, you expected, the foreign depths were there—you weren't ready for them. Things changed in your absence; you returned to a new world.

It is wrong, Zuko knows, to feel relief at her words. Even worse to feel joy because of them, but joy unsheathes its claws inside him nonetheless. She does not belong there, with the cold and the endless whiteness; she belongs _here_.

"It's strange, isn't it?" Katara puts her palm against a wall, turning away again. "To think of a ship as a place, instead of what it is, a way to reach a destination."

Personally, that's something Zuko tries to avoid thinking about. "How much did you hate having to come on it?"

"I was scared." The palm slides down the metal then abruptly falls back to her side. "Too little space, too many people I didn't know, let alone trust. And there was so much water, everywhere, without end. It's one thing swirling tea in a teacup; it's another when there's enough water to rival the sky."

Zuko shakes his head, lost. "That's—I can't understand that."

"I know and I wouldn't ask you to." She gives the words without judgment. "It's just the way it was then. And, well, it doesn't matter; we're all each other in the end, I suppose."

Silence lies down to stretch between them.

"You didn't burn my name," she finally remarks, offhandedly. Her tone is casual, exhibiting no noticeable interest in the subject. Disconcerting, considering the subject is that of her own funeral. Having no body, the most honorable option available would have been to take Katara's name, written out by her closest kin (Iroh), and burn it to give her spirit a smoke trail to follow into heaven. Uncle Iroh approached him with the suggestion two weeks after her…disappearance; he was not wrong to do so.

"I forbade the ceremony." Zuko turns to look at her. It isn't easy. "It wouldn't have been the right thing to do—it was too soon."

"How long would you've waited?"

_I don't know._ "Longer."

"A season, then?" She meets his questioning look with fragile stillness. "That's how long they, my tribe, waited before declaring me dead. One season, summer. And then they gathered toys and beads to wrap into a parka, my parka, and threw it into the water." She purses her lips. "I think I'd rather have my spirit follow smoke into the air then have it rambling around under the ice. Though it must be interesting, don't you think, to explore the world underwater?"

"Don't," he commands. "Saying things like that is bad luck; you shouldn't talk about it."

"Why not? It's _my_ death; doesn't that mean I have the right to discuss it?" Emotion flashes in the blue of her eyes, anger or pain, and the invisible walls around her trembled. "Especially since nobody else would. The whole tribe, everyone, not a single one of them would say a word about what happened. It was like I'd broken a rule by returning to them and the silence was a punishment. Or, worse, like my being there wasn't real, that if anyone dared to point out the presence of a ghost among them she'd disappear. My grandmother was the only person who mentioned my mother's name out loud around me, and I can count on one hand the number of times she did it. Even Sokka…" Katara's teeth bite her lip; he sees the tension gather at the corners of her mouth. "He told me to forget about it. As if half my life was something to spit out into the snow and walk away from."

Then what is it to you? he wants to ask. She's lived in the Fire Nation for half her life but how much of her heart, her mind, resides with the people who are not her own? With Iroh? With _him_? But the price of asking this is not something Zuko is ready to pay.

"It would've gotten better," Zuko says, his own worst enemy and yet unable to bar the words. "Whatever anxiety they felt towards your…arrival would have abated in time, Katara. Maybe you can't imagine what it's like to have someone important to you simply pop back into existence—but I can." His skin remembers the sting of the snowball. "It's like having the world disappear from under your feet. The tribe, your grandmother and brother, they just needed more time to accept what happened. Eventually things would have returned to normal."

"Things would never have returned to normal." The finality of the statement surprises Zuko; he feels her words stare at something hot and desperate inside his chest. "Sometimes there's no going back. No matter what kind of miracle you find among the ice."

Suddenly, Zuko wishes they were outside, on the deck or on land, anywhere that had a high sky of stars above them. He wants space. The room around them is too small to contain the rising tide of agitation beginning in his lungs and stomach. Katara's words have always had the power to render him undone; a one-line riddle could trap his mind for a week, a five-minute argument could haunt his temper for a month and a two-word apology could transmute his anger into simple air. This time hearing her is stirring up fears and hopes he's been spending two years trying not to name. The phantom sting on his cheek is changing into a blister. He closes his eyes against the memory.

And open them again when a cool hand touches his. Katara looks up at him, mouth closed but soul open, and the fingertips on his knuckles press down just a little. Just enough. The fear recedes and he stares at her, unsure of how to define the expression he feels forming on his face.

"What if…" she begins. Stops. The hand drops away.

"What if…what?" _Talk to me._

"What if today was the first time we met?" Zuko blinks. Katara continues, not looking at him. "If the ship broke through the ice and you came down and I looked up—and that would be the first time we ever saw each other. How different would it be? Would we recognize each other as anything besides Fire and Water?" She raises her eyes. "Would you recognize me?"

What a strange thing to ask. What a strange, perplexing, amazing thing to ask. And yet how very like Katara to ask it.

"It's impossible. How could we be expected to recognize each other as anything except…different?" The fingers of his right hand, the one she touched, curl slowly. "We'd be strangers."

She nods. The acquiescence is oddly disappointing. "Strangers. You're right. It was an infantile thing to ask, sorry." A corner of her mouth twitches. "Master Iroh likes reminding about truth being stranger than fiction, but did you ever wonder at how right he is about that? The two of us—we don't make any sense. A prince with the chance to rule the world and a girl born in a house with a dirt floor; it's ridiculous. How is it that we're friends?"

"Maybe it's fate." She blinks. Zuko continues, not looking away from her. "Maybe fate saw a prince barely lucky enough to be born and brought a blue-eyed moon girl to pull him out of a garden pond. Maybe it put a brush in her hand to teach him something important about the unexpected things in the world. Maybe it called her to his door during the worst time of his life to yell like an ill-bred fishwife and remind him to be strong. Maybe he cursed every drop of water in the sea when she was gone and maybe he thanked every star when she returned. Maybe, sometimes, fate is kind."

"I don't think it knows how. Things happen because they're there to happen and there's no pattern, no reason for—I'm sorry." Katara puts a hand over her eyes. Zuko expects to hear sigh; she doesn't give it. "I'm tired. Sorry. And you don't believe in fate."

"Tonight," Zuko says, not quite laughing, "I'm willing to believe anything."

Her eyes still covered, hidden, she asks, "Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow we go back to chasing fairy tales and empty rumors around the world." He turns to stare out the window, seeing moonlight but not its source. "Tomorrow we search for the Avatar."

A tug of material at his wrist makes him realize she's grabbed his sleeve, holding the edge of it like a child. "I'm not sorry I met you." He glances at her and is surprised to see no serenity in Katara's expression. Instead her face is full shaking, anxious lines and her eyes shine wetly. "I'm not. I swear it by my—my honor, by whatever you'd trust, I'm not sorry, I've never been sorry, not for that. You have to believe me—please, you have to believe it, even if—if one day something happens, if I do something, something terrible, to make you think otherwise— _ **don't**_. Please."

She's trembling; Zuko feels the tremors when he puts a hand on Katara's shoulder to calm her, not understanding. "Katara, why—what are you talking about? I'd never expect you to—listen, there's no need to ask something like that. It's all right. Katara? _Katara_."

"—please, don't. Even if what I do is really awful and ugly, and hurts everyone, hurts you; I don't—wouldn't—mean it, not like that, Zuko, not to hurt anyone—"

Zuko lays a hand against her hair, too disturbed by the grief in her voice to worry about the intimacy of the contact. Seeing Katara come apart like this, without knowing why or how to fix it, is scattering his mind. It's panic, shock, a post-traumatic overload of stress and— _whatever_ , Zuko doesn't care about the label; he only wants her tears to stop. "Katara, it's all right; you don't have to worry about anything like that. Really, don't, please—please, don't cry."

A sob chokes her stumbling words and Zuko breaks; he takes the next step without thinking of what may follow it and wraps both arms around her. Katara collapses into the hold without hesitation, easy as gravity or the fall of rain. "Shh, shh, it's okay, I promise. Just—just let it out. Don't fight it. You're going to be okay: let it out." His left palm rests on her shoulder blade, covering it completely; the flesh feels maddeningly fragile to him, like he could break through to the bone without even trying. Zuko is used to thinking of Katara as undersized but holding her this close, closer than he has ever held anyone, closer than he can ever remember being held, is teaching him how small the girl really is. Not in height but in the built and breadth of her, the slimness of her neck and wrists, the hollow of her throat and the flow of her back, the curve of the cheek against his chest.

How could such a little thing have so much to love about it?

"I could never hate you," he murmurs, trying to rub away the quiver in her shoulders. "It doesn't matter what we argue about or what happens, you're not—you're…I missed you. You have no idea what went through my head while you were gone. I kept thinking of what happened and I kept trying to hope, except you weren't around to show me how. So I walked around like a fool and hurt like hell—did you know I went into your room and counted ever needle you had? There were nine and two broken ones; I counted twice. I don't know why I did it but I couldn't stay away, couldn't sleep knowing you were…you were…you…"

Not letting go, he tries to steer her into sitting down but Katara resists and pushes away just enough to look up at him. The delicate skin around her eyes is turning puffy, and will only look worse later, but the wet blue is stunning.

"You're the reason I'm here," she whispers. Zuko isn't sure what that means but it sounds like a confession.

He kisses her.

Zuko has never in all his sixteen years kissed anyone in a way that meant anything and neither can he remember ever wanting to. Except maybe that's not exactly true because kissing Katara feels like answering a call, or maybe simply actually _listening_ to it for the first time. One hand automatically goes to the back of her head, trying to lend some stability to the deed; the other hand stays laid out across her shoulders, noticing that the tremors are still. The kiss is a contact venturing no further than the skin of his and her lips, a chaste press despite the lightning Zuko's mind attaches to the sensation. But this is not important.

The fact that Katara doesn't pull away, instead leaning _in_ , is.

Zuko pulls away first, vaguely aware of holding his breath through out the whole endeavor. Likewise, Katara exhales. The puff of warm air briefly skims the edge of Zuko's cheek; he tries to speak around the pulse in his throat. "Katara. Trust me when I say that I could never hate you. I _can't_."

"I missed you," she says. Arms wrap around his middle. "I missed you so much. I tried not to but it was like thinking the moon was never coming back. I'd sit out in the cold, staring at the water, and it felt wrong." She lowers her head back down, a light pressure upon him. "None of it would've happened if I'd stayed below deck during the storm. I'm sorry. Everything that happened while I was gone, all it caused…I'm sorry for hurting you."

"Katara. _Katara_ , look at me." She does. "You helped protect this ship and everyone on it. You saved me. Again. Actually, that seems to be something of a pattern with you."

"Old habits." She's not crying now but he can still trace the tear track on her face. "I get paranoid every time I see you on a bridge or near water." She blinks, sniffing, and unpeels an arm from his waist to rub the heel of her hand against her eyes. "What a mess. Waterbenders. Soppy to the last; I'm surprised it took me this long to start leaking."

Zuko thumbs the curve of her cheek and Katara's hand falls away. "Stronger than she looks, our little fish. Stronger than the moon."

"Zuko?" Again, the lack of title. Again, he doesn't mind. "Can I…"

"…yes?"

She swallows; his eyes translate the jump and fall of it in the motion of her throat. "Can I stay here tonight? If only for a little while, can I stay? With you?"

"Afraid of bad dreams?"

"That's not it. Not anymore." Katara's gaze is steady, brave. Sincere. "I want to stay."

This could be a mistake. This could be a dream. This could be a chance that will never pass this close again. This could be worth it all. "I want you to stay."

The bed is small but then, he notes again, so is Katara. Zuko lays back on it, fully dressed, while Katara toes off her boots. The angle has her at his blind side, a blurred shape of dim blue and white. Zuko closes his eyes to give his mind a chance to dive deep and bury this moment, him and her, safely in his memory.

Tomorrow, the world. But tonight he is a believer, a child in the dark, feeling her weight settle on the bed beside him. When she curls, not facing him but staying closer than the bed's size demands, Zuko drapes his arm across her middle to feel the rise and drop of her breath.

"Do you want me to leave the lamps burning?"

"I like the glow. Do you mind?"

"No." He closes his eyes. "I don't mind at all. Dream sweet."

She doesn't speak but fingertips settle on the hand at her side; he feels the pressure of the touch sink to the core of him. There is something telling, perhaps, in falling asleep with a Fire flag at your back and a Water girl in your arms, but Zuko isn't thinking about it. Instead, he listens to the lullaby of Katara's breathing, and is almost happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much credit for this chapter goes to amurderofcrows, who attacked with good intentions and mental torture until I gave in and had our unlikely duo kiss. She also punched me. A lot. In the ear.


	23. Arc III: a drop in the ocean: +deviation+

He wakes up alone.

Zuko blinks against the room's soft darkness, unseeing yet solidly convinced of something being out of place. He sits up, confused, and one hand touches the edge of a neatly folded blanket; it is cool and yielding under his touch, its corners in perfect order.

 _How like her_ , he thinks and almost smiles. Katara's absence does not disturb him (though a tiny patch of Zuko's mind dallies briefly with the fantasy of waking up to river eyes and maple skin, and the smile that won't reject him.) Undoubtedly, she has returned to own room and bed as is proper. He will see her in the morning. Zuko's internal clock announces such a meeting to be only a few hours away, though it's possible Katara will sleep in; she has, after all, been through a lot. Yes, let her rest and upon rising step out to find her old life ready to welcome her. Zuko can easily predict what kind of welcome the morning will bring; the night of Katara's return was smothered with astonishment, happy but too shocked to be truly inviting: it was simply too unbelievable. But soon, given time between the morning and the miracle, everyone will accept what has happened and celebrate sincerely. No doubt, there will be red and white dumplings at breakfast (her favorite) and a Pai Sho marathon at dinner. Already, he can hear the bustle of the coming Music Night; for a moment, Zuko actually regrets not having access to the musical instruments he's educated in. Not the Sungi horn, but a flute would do. Then again, perhaps the instruments would only serve as an unwanted distraction. They could dance instead, Zuko decides, not realizing the smile threatening his face finally opened its curves and happened. Yes, they will dance together while the firelight flirts with the gold in her hair, and he will oversee her Waterbending practice openly, and—

_Why did she come back?_

The question pierces his daydreaming, a sudden flash of lightening illuminating cliffs of doubt and the precipice they guard. Zuko pauses, hand on the folded blanket, feeling again the off-key slant which assaulted him upon first seeing her face alive and outlined by fur. The vertigo passes quickly, but he cannot erase the whispering echo of its suspicion.

 _I don't belong there_ , she'd said. And, _there isn't any place for me._ The guilty joy Zuko felt at the confession returns, but now it twists uncomfortably inside his thoughts. At fourteen, he knows her life experience is equally divided between Water and Fire, and she cannot belong entirely to either. From the moment they met, Katara's difference has been Zuko's most constant companion; it defined her, foreign, as his defined him. To the eyes of the Fire Nation they stood outside the ordinary, living without a way to overcome the boundaries their heritages bestowed. Zuko was never more aware of the rigidity of his position than when together with his clever, blue-eyed friend…yet her company was among the most special. Unique. With Katara, formality and convention couldn't be trusted for guidance: the things that to Zuko were inherent, indisputable, transmuted in her brown hands. Practicing calligraphy, copying history anew, how many times did Zuko have to remind himself that the girl at his side viewed all he knew, all he was, with a mind not born of the sun? Even more than coloring and circumstance, Katara stood apart from his people because of her heart's origins and reasoning. Always, he had believed her difference, like his own, was inborn: unchangeable.

In the Fire Nation you are what you are meant to do, from the first breath to the last. It is the makings of your honor. It is the rules of your place. It is the nature of your fate.

 _But…what if there's more? Somewhere, someone. How much can the world change, if we make the choice to let it?_ Once upon a more innocent time, Zuko believed in change. He had believed the courage to take a stand guaranteed its success, providing one acted with honor. Now Zuko believes only in what he must do.

Standing up, hands straightening his queue and robes, Zuko walks towards the door and out of the room.

Outside, the ship is quiet but not silent; small noises cross the warm, still air, murmuring evidence of power and movement and heat. Ships, he has learned, have a language of their own. Zuko rests his hand against one iron wall to feel the hum of movement underneath, an echo of the engines' roar, unexpectedly reassured by the metal kissing his palm. It is a good ship. It will get them where they need to be.

Only, where do they go from here?

Iroh's room isn't far but Zuko walks slowly, thinking about how to begin a conversation filled with questions he's not sure how to ask. Getting his uncle's advice on this matter will be…odd. Uncomfortably, Zuko wonders if Iroh will scold him for the timing, the circumstances, the broken protocol. Proper etiquette states a man should approach the woman's family before beginning courtship, declaring his intentions clearly and asking for permission. At the dawn of adolescence, Zuko understood that the design of his romances, voluntarily or otherwise, would curve to a different pattern; a prince's heart is servant to necessity. He knew even then, young and green, watching silky women vanish behind seraglio gates, that his pleasure would always be shadowed by the responsibility of his position. Which is not to say that certain liberties would not occur, Iroh had informed his nephew during one of the man's saltier moments. Every life has its surprises, and a strong man will hold out his hand without fear.

Zuko wonders if any of it justifies kissing your best friend.

Probably not.

 _But she didn't move away._ She could have, of course; he isn't victim to the idea of Katara's actions being a type of obedience, of submission, regardless of how much confusion Zuko's digesting. He can in the brief span of a single breath list a library of incidents describing Katara's immunity to authority. _Especially_ his. Irresistibly, behind his eyes, the record unrolls: she has acted against his orders, sneaked behind his back, shouted over his arguments, seen through his excuses, and generally spent the majority of their friendship darting to the right and left of him. Somehow, no matter how much silk or seawater around her, Katara has always managed to find her own way. A useful, if exasperating, quality in the girl you're trusting fate to keep by your side.

The silent mention of fate stirs clouds of nervousness; Zuko quickens his step. Yes, fate brought a girl into a garden in time to watch a boy get pitched into a pond by clumsiness and stupidity. But seven years later fate washed her away and left him behind with broken ribs and a scrap of silk. Zuko does not cherish the notion of trusting important matters solely to fate; his search for the Avatar, for example: its success will come through sweat, not luck. Fortune is fickle, deceiving; the gold it buys your heart with can turn to leaves in the morning. Too much luck inspires laziness and weakness, while too little spins greed into bitterness. No, Zuko doesn't need luck, nor does he want it.

But it would be nice, he thinks, to hear a little reassurance. A few warm words to settle his stomach. Hell, he'll even listen to whatever proverbs Uncle has for the occasion (and there has to be at least one.)

Uncle Iroh's door opens easily; in fact, Zuko suspects the man forgot to close before retiring to bed. Strange, but then perhaps his uncle had other things on his mind. The ghostly scent of ginseng lingering inside, informs Zuko about what sort of things that may be. Did she sit with Iroh before coming to him, or was the visit more recent? Does it matter? No, Zuko decides, and puts a hand on his uncle's shoulder.

There is no response.

Iroh's breathing is deep and flat, and Zuko's gentle shake elicits nothing, not even a twitch. He shakes harder, calling his uncle's name sternly. Iroh continues to sleep, unresponsive, and Zuko feels something wary raise its head inside his thoughts. Uncle Iroh is a sturdy sleeper, yes, but not—something is wrong. Again, he notices the aroma of tea, wondering at how strong she brewed the mixture to have it last this long. It is then, that Zuko notices a recognizable dense sweetness in the air, his hazy suspicions overlapped by her face. Eyes urgent, he scans the room for familiar evidence; the cups and kettle are damnably easy to spot. Zuko picks up a teacup, its blue design misleadingly dark in the dimness of the room, and notes its dryness; the second cup, however, still harbors a wet shine from the use. Next to it, he sees the scroll.

Zuko breaks the seal without hesitation, pulse rushing but hands steady. The parchment unrolls easily; at its end, two treasures clatter to the table with a wink of gold. Ironically, he recognizes the paintbrush before the hairpin, but then it is her favorite brush; his memories of her are more often mixed with ink than metal. Breath frozen, Zuko touches first one object, than the other. The tip of the brush is dark—still damp. The hairpin is tipped with blood. He stares at the two, uncomprehending until he turns his attention to the scroll. Its creamy surface is mostly bare, fresh and harmless, save for the few black characters written in the paper's center and the tiny red fingerprint, like a seal, below the word.

One word.

_("You didn't burn my name…")_

The scroll falls from his hand; Zuko does not pause to see where it lands: he runs. Out of his uncle's room and into the hall, through the hall and down the stairs, towards—where? Where would she go? Somewhere from within, there breathes an ugly answer and Zuko runs faster, hiding behind his pulse. It is hard. Harder still, when halfway to the exit, he stumbles across the bodies of two guards, sleeping. A half empty bottle lies close; Zuko doesn't have to pick it up to know its wine carries the same thick glimmer of sweetness used in his uncle's tea. What else—the food, more wine, more tea, the drinking water maybe? She has, he knows, enough of the sleeping drug to ward off a year of nightmares, and access to every cup and pot aboard. The quietness of the ship closes a fist around Zuko's heart; it speaks of what he fears to think.

Ice blocks the deck's exit; Zuko blazes it open, passing through water and steam into the predawn light outside.

She is a small, bold mark against the horizon. Even cocooned in the bulky parka, Katara looks undersized, diminished rather than enhanced. Fur hood down, her face is rendered translucent by the cool early light; the expression she turns to Zuko is incomplete, not quite surprise and not quite fear, but somehow it turns the short distance between them into a gulf. When he takes a step forward, she takes one back, and Zuko stops.

Then, he sees the boy.

He looks eleven, maybe a year more, maybe less. The vibrant orange and yellow of his clothes resemble nothing Zuko remembers seeing among the Water Tribe villagers. Nor are his eyes blue. The only blue he has is in the arrow painted down his bald head. Zuko's blood quickens, heating, at the sight of that tattoo and the long wooden staff in the boy's hand. There's no fear in the youngster's face, no alarm in the innocent gray gaze inspecting Zuko; there is nothing to indicate recognition, or forewarning.

"Who's he, Katara?" the child asks.

"Zuko." His name comes from her like a breath, empty and vital. She stands close to the boy, too close, but it is the prince she talks to. "Zuko, please, don't—he's not what you think."

Confused, the boy blinks at her and then looks to Zuko as if for explanation; Zuko has none to give. Instead, he asks the boy, "Who are you?"

"I'm Aang." The affability in his voice fades upon noting the expression on Zuko's face. "Hey, what's wrong? Katara, what's going on?"

Both look towards the Waterbender between them, but she speaks to Zuko. "He's just a child, Zuko. Can't you see; all this time he wasn't hiding, he was lost. We, Sokka and I, found him, when we—in the ice; he was stuck there. Frozen. He's been there, I mean, we think he was trapped there the entire time, a hundred years." Her words are fast, desperate, and her eyes beseech him. "We were wrong about him, Zuko. Everything we read, the stories and the legends and the rumors, everything we predicted—we were _wrong_ about him. Do you understand?"

He does. Zuko stares at the boy with the Air marks on his skin, the naïve gray eyes and the open expression, the lack of apprehension in the young, light body, and sees every theory composed in the past two years crumble into ruin. The prince of the Fire Nation stares at the child, this impossible, unbelievable, _**fucking**_ child—and knows it changes nothing.

Fire lances out, towards Katara but falling short of actually hitting her. She stumbles back, surprise in her cry, and it is enough; Zuko's next shot is aimed directly at the boy. His hands weave together the next blow even as the boy, the _Airbender_ , dodges the first by launching himself impossibly upward, as if weightless. He lands farther away, the movement effortless with grace, a gust of wind ruffling his bright clothes like a loving hand. A thin wall of water rises and falls between them, its maker stepping into its place with her arms spread. Zuko recognizes the look on her face.

"Don't," Katara says.

"Move." She doesn't. " _Move_ , Katara! He's the one, the Avatar! Now get out of the way—that's a damn order, understand?"

"I won't let you take him."

The words are devastatingly pure, her sincerity insurmountable. He wants to rip them out of the air, wrest them apart, and throw the grizzled remains into the deepest part of the arctic waters. He wants to grab her shoulders, shake until the lunacy flies out of her head, and never remember this moment again. He wants to scream till his throat is raw from it. He wants to hit the boy. He wants the moment to be anything except what it is.

He doesn't want this.

"Step aside, Katara." Zuko's voice is harsh; it hurts his throat. "It's over. Don't you understand—this is it. He's the Avatar. What we've spent the past two years hunting, this whole damn miserable quest, is finally over. No more chasing, no more running from horizon to horizon after century-stale rumors and anecdotes, no more of everything these two years have been. It ends with him, Katara. It ends now. I can go home; things will return to normal."

" _ **Things will never return to normal!**_ " Gone is the unsteadiness of her earlier expression; in its place is rage, and searing conviction. "Home is gone; it vanished the day a father condemned his loyal son for speaking the truth nobody else would. Everything that's happened, to you, to me, to the whole damn world—nothing anyone does will change that. You're right; it has to end and now, oh, don't you see, Zuko, now it _can_. The Avatar can restore the balance; he can bring back the way things used to be, they way they should be." The steel in her voice cracks, revealing the desperation beneath. "He's the only one who can do it, Zuko. The only one who can stop the terrible things being done. Tell me what'll happen if you put him in chains and bring him to the Fire Lord. Tell me it'll stop the killings. Tell me it'll mean no more mothers crying over undue graves. Tell me no more houses will burn in the night. Tell me no more children will scream. Tell me the snow will never be red or black again. Tell me no more soldiers will surrender their lives to a heartless plan they don't even know about. Tell me the war will end in this lifetime. _Tell me_."

Zuko cannot. For as long as he lives, Zuko knows he will remember this; the muted hush of the ocean, the cold graze of the air on his skin, the passion and pleading in the face he knows best, the gray-eyed child almost within reach, the throbbing helplessness in his chest, the nearly imperceptible sway of the ship, the girl standing between him and the Avatar. His most surprising ally. His favorite kind-eyed riddle. His best friend.

"Katara," Zuko says. "Get out of my way."

They find him a few hours later, sprawled on the deck with a bruise on the back of his head. Apparently, the clumsy backwater peasant's aim is better the second time around; Zuko is unsure whether it was luck or mercy, or ineptitude, that kept the blow from doing more damage that it did. Sitting still under the ship doctor's questing hands, Zuko tells about the Avatar, the flying bison, the Airbending that stalled their ship in snow, the tribesman boy who attacked from the back. He tells about the direction the Avatar is likely to head in and the route they'll take following him.

He does not tell about how, in the last moment before unconsciousness sank him, a gentle hand touched his ruined face and she said _I'm sorry._

_It's a story; impossible things are easier in stories. I think. So, when the moon was crying the Avatar said, "Don't despair; love does not depend on distance or time. I will give you something more powerful than death or duty, something stronger than dreams or memory. I will give you hope."_

 

**The End**

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's that, folks. Thank you a thousand times over to my beta mob: ddrfaeryspice , flutie2891, kawaiilyn, Sammy R, skravelle, melodiee. I don't know what I'd do without you (except, y'know, fail miserably.) The other flood of gratitude goes to all the reviewers on FF.Net and on LJ: despite my pledge to be a cool customer, you guys made me blush and gush like a happy, happy fool. What could be sweeter?
> 
> As for everyone else, thanks for reading. Because that, dear fellows, is the reason for it all.


	24. Extra: No Map Without Water: +checkpoint+

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started _Tempest_ 's sequel, _No Map Without Water_ , at the same time as the final chapter. Sadly, that little beginning was all the sequel that ever got fit to print (or post).
> 
> So let's deem it a coda and let sleeping dragons dream.

_Where are you?_

There was a game they used to play together, with maps. Hoards of maps would be stretched across the floor, transforming a single room into the world's reflection. ("The world at our feet," she used to laugh; he never did.) Carefully, they'd arrange each piece of territory within clear sight, smoothing ragged edges flat, and opening windows to fill the room with good light. If the hour was late and the sky dark, they would light the lamps instead; their glow would cast vivid shadows over the painted kingdoms, deepening the valleys and stretching the hills.

Then, they'd begin.

Where am I, one would ask. The other would answer, you are by the sea. And she would smile and agree, or he would smirk and refute.

Where are you going, one would ask next. The other would answer, I am sailing past the islands and can see the red cliffs guarding a kingdom; can I see you? But she would say, no, you are too far to the right of me. Or he would say, yes, you are very close to the left of me.

It was a pastime that grew from simple to elaborate, and then continued doing so with every session. In the beginning, she created it to be a study aid and break his monotony. In return, he gave to it all he knew and helped lessen the difference between their educations. (She was younger and foreign, but quick; it would've turned competitive eventually if not the pride they took in being each other's tutor.) Again and again, they raced and hid amongst the outlines of nations neither had ever seen, hop-scotching over Earth borders and Fire domains, one keenly searching for the other. He had a talent for tracking; she had a skill at misleading.

It used to be their favorite game.

_Where is he?_

There was a ritual they used to have between them, on the ship. Come evening, when all the lamps were lit and many lay asleep (though there were many, too, awake) she'd kneel to sit beside him. A map was spread on the table, its edges held down by a compass or an ink stone, and the talking would start. Unlike the daylight debates, which were a meld of orders, directions, and facts-to-be, their evening conversations held the meter and flow of stories unfinished. Legends met historical records, peasant folklore clashed with royal accounts, and the imagination of one mind challenged the judgment of another.

To the west, she would say, where some villagers still believe each wind has a name, and can be bribed into kindness with incense and song. We'll ask who taught them this and why they remember it. (But he didn't trust histories kept beneath the straw mat of a hut.)

To the east, he would say, where the first campaigns entered the hills and conquered the land. Military scribes wrote of what their leaders saw and whom they fought; in their descriptions of the enemy, we'll look for clues to understand a dead culture's travels. (But she didn't trust descriptions forged according to soldiers' orders.)

They argued and agreed, analyzed and estimated, listened and talked, and talked, and talked. For every opinion she offered, he had a fault to discover. For every verdict he gave, she had an alternative to suggest. The shadows of their hands overlapped on paper, darkening the colored ink, and sometimes laughter rang against the iron walls.

It used to be their favorite time of the day.

Somewhere in the air, there is a girl.

The map is a light, almost unnoticeable, weight in Katara's lap; she uses both hands to keep it open and flat, ignoring the wind's attempts to steal it. Having no ready marker available, she uses eyes and memory to measure how far they've come. Sokka peers over her shoulder, while Aang twists around to stare at her expectantly.

"We've got a long way to go," she tells them.

Somewhere on the sea, there is a boy.

The map is dry and smooth under Zuko's fingertips; he traces the freshly made markings on its surface, looking for the pattern of their arrangement. Once he finds it, as find it he must and will, he'll have the means to understand how to come closer to what he seeks. Uncle Iroh tilts his head in wait for a decision, while the crew readies for his command.

"We've got a long way to go," he tells them.

_My friend, where are we now..._

**Author's Note:**

> Insurmountable thanks to ddrfaeryspice , flutie2891, kawaiilyn, Sammy R, skravelle, melodiee. Like a pack of purebred Alaskan Huskies, they weeded through the text and helped pull a story out. Ladies, I salute thee.


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